Consulting Asthmatic Detective
by Xenay LP
Summary: Sherlock has asthma. John finds out. Panic ensues. (First fic, please give critisism!)
1. John finds something

Doctor John (Hamish) Watson liked to think he is a master of patience. He has dealt with his alcoholic sister, his parents' problems until their divorce.

But nothing in his life could have prepared him enough for living with the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

It was just a mundane Sunday morning when John had gotten their freshly washed clothes and got done putting his away. When he came back into the living room of the flat, he saw exactly what he had seen before he left to put his clothes back into his room: the stack of Sherlock's clothes still on the sofa, and the detective still staring into, and fiddling with, his microscope.

"For god's sake, can you do anything on your own for once in your life?!" He snapped at his flat mate.

"Busy."

John groaned in frustration and just took the clothes into his flat mates room, already knowing that this was a losing battle anyways. Besides, if the bloody genius was too busy to just put his own clothes back where they belong, he wouldn't care if he disturbed any of his 'indexes'.

As he was sorting the pants in with the others in the drawer, something caught his eye.

He is a medical man, and knew in seconds, without question, what was hidden in the furthest corner. He took it into his hand.

An inhaler.

A blue 'rescue inhaler', the can saying 'Salbutamol'.

Impossible.

Sherlock wasn't..

..was he?

No. No. It couldn't be.

But then.. why else would he have this..?

Shaking his head, John decided that it was probably just a one time thing and that he just still had the thing, just in case. Because really, if he would need it frequently, why would it be in the furthest corner of a clothes drawer? Plus, it was not his decision. If Sherlock was or wasn't going to tell him, that would be his decision.

With those thoughts he put the inhaler back where he had found it, finished up with the rest of the detective's clothes and just went back into the living room, resuming what he had planned on doing today.

Nothing.

"John, we have a case."


	2. John finds out

It was a few months later, in one of the hottest weeks of the summer, that John noticed a few more things.

First of all, since when did they have a hygrometer? And why was his flat mate frantically spraying water with a spray bottle in their flat?

"Sherlock."

No reaction, he just kept on spraying around.

"Sherlock?"

"What." Came a hoarse and almost forced out sounding response, that had John do a double take.

"What are you doing?" He carefully asked, knowing that he wouldn't get any answers if he straight out asked what was wrong. Not 'if' something was wrong, he already knew that something was up.

Either that, or this was just another one of his weird experiments.

"Spraying. Should be obvious, John. Even Anderson should be able to see that." He rasped out.

Now John was certain that he was having trouble talking. Even though whatever was causing it was not bad enough for him to talk less, it seemed.

"Yes. I can see that. But WHY are you spraying water everywhere? Is this another one of your experiments?"

Sherlock put down the spray bottle. Slammed it, was a better word, on the table in front of John. Then he went over to the sofa and pummeled onto it, laying on his back. John almost thought he was going into his famous thinking pose, but that wasn't the case, as his hands were laying beside his body.

"Helps me breathe."

Now that was new. Normally he only did things that he claimed to "help him think".

The word 'breathe' triggered something in his brain.

There was something.. something that had to do with it and his flat mate.

It's one of these times where John wished he had a mind palace.

Apparently the universe was going to give him hints to help him remember, because when John was about to get up to make tea in order to calm his frustration, his friend suddenly gave a wheeze.

It sounded like he was trying to cough, but it was more air being squeezed than clearing one's airways with the force of a real cough.

Something clicked in John's mind.

Wheezing. Inhaler.

He suddenly scrambled to his feet, grabbing the detective's attention, and rushed into his flat mate's room, opened the drawer and felt around at the back end until he finally grabbed the item he was looking for.

In the same hurry he came back and held out his hand that held the inhaler. Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know I still had this thing." He wheezed out and started coughing for real.

"Please just take it. You probably still remember how to use it." John said, but decided to shake it for him anyways, while Sherlock started to pull himself to a sitting position. He took it from John's hand, removed the cap, put his lips around the mouth piece and took a deep breath as he pressed down on the can.

Hearing the hiss of the medication seemed to trigger some memories in Sherlock, because John was certain that he was suddenly not fully there.

"Sherlock?" He asked and gently touched his shoulder.

It was enough to break the trance.

"You need to do it again, it has always been two puffs as one dose." John explained. Sherlock gave him a confused glance for a second before realizing that he held the inhaler in his hands. He repeated the procedure, holding his breath a few seconds this time to let the medicine spread everywhere in his lungs. Then he closed the cap and handed it back to John, getting up to rinse his mouth in the bathroom.

Well, he did seem to remember the use, John mused.

Something didn't sit right with him though, and he couldn't help but wonder what it is.


	3. A call with Mycroft

Mycroft could not help it. Every time the weather got extremely hot or cold, he would always think back to when his brother had his first bad asthma attack and had to be taken to the hospital by ambulance.

He would never forget the panic. Both Sherlock's apparent panic and his own when he realized that he could do nothing to help.

His last attack was years ago, but with every sudden big change in temperature there comes the uneasiness.

It was times like this when he would keep checking his phone to make sure neither his brother or anyone from MI6 were messaging or calling him with the news that his brother was in the hospital again and the doctors weren't sure if he would pull through.

He was well aware that the medicine and technology was not as advanced back then as it is now, but his worry would never leave him.

Just when he was about to call his brother himself, to ask if everything was alright, he got a call from John Watson.

"John." He answered.

"Mycroft." John answered back in the same disinterested voice. But they both knew that when he called, it was because of a reason. So he went straight to the point. "Sherlock has asthma." It wasn't a question. He could hear Mycroft swallow heavily.

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Age of 14. First attack at this very time of year. Last one 5 years ago - at least what I know of."

John seemed to process this, because the other end went deathly silent for a minute.

"Anything I need to look out for?"

"It would help immensely. The triggers I know of are dry air, hot and wet air, dust, animal fur - cats specifically and most importantly stress. And let me tell you, he gets more stressed than he lets on." Mycroft silently frowned at the memories. His own little brother had turned to drugs because of all the stress. "He won't like you fussing over him, so keep a quiet eye on him."

"Of course. Thanks Mycroft."

"Keep him safe, John. Please."

"Always."


	4. John and the Yard witness an attack

A few weeks later they were on a case. Lestrade had literally begged them to come, because for once, Sherlock didn´t want to leave the flat. The air outside was hot and dry, and he already felt close to suffocating in the 42% humidity of their flat. Even though Sherlock claimed that he was fine and wouldn´t need it, John took his rescue inhaler with him.

The cab ride was silent. As always, Sherlock was fiddling with his phone, looking up who knows what that could help solving the new case. But when John glanced over, he saw that the detective was actually looking up the weather of London for the next few days and weeks.

For some weird reason, this concerned him.

When they arrived, Donovan and Anderson were apparently discussing something with Lestrade. Until they noticed them coming over to the crime scene, that is.

"You just _had_ to bring the freak here." Anderson complained. Sally only rolled her eyes.

"Yes. In fact I did." Lestrade just answered with disinterest, then turned to John and Sherlock. "Glad you´re here. This man, somewhere in his 40s-"

"divorced, alcoholic, chain smoker. Seen it all before, Lestrade, so what is so important that you had to call us here." If Lestrade hadn´t known any better, he would say that Sherlock just snapped at him. And it didn´t go by Anderson and Donovan, who _ooh_ -ed and commented with "freak got out of bed on the wrong foot" and "guess someone didn´t get his daily shagging".

John grew red in the face in a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. Sherlock just crossed his arms and went over to the corpse for an examination. Somehow his actions seemed to have caught Greg´s attention, because he asked John if everything was alright and kept a closer eye on the consulting detective.

And for good reason, because the second Sherlock bent down to get a closer look, suddenly there was smoke steaming from around the corpse. He immediately turned away and sprinted a few feet away. But not fast enough.

Well, now he knew what caused the death. Because the second he accidentally inhaled the smoke, his entire airways were on fire. In a matter of seconds he went from coughing and gasping, to wheezing and struggling to breathe. He grew paler and started sweating, doubling over in pain by the time John ran over to him.

"Christ! Sherlock, are you okay?!" John already knew the answer but asked anyways. He fumbled with his pocket to get the inhaler out, shook it quickly and uncapped it before handing it over.

Sherlock quickly took a puff but couldn´t hold his breath, his airways too irritated and thinking the medicine was more of the smoke. He coughed and hacked for what felt like hours, but couldn´t have been more than a minute, because the guys from the Yard had come over. Apparently they were taking too long for them and they had gotten concerned – well, Lestrade at least.

When he finally managed to stop hacking his lungs out, he tried the inhaler again; this time managing a few seconds before his lungs forced him to cough again. At this point his entire frame was trembling and with John´s help he was lowered to the ground.

"You guys alright?" Even though it was completely unnecessary, Lestrade just felt the need to ask.

"I´m okay, but.." John trailed off as he gave Sherlock a concerned glance. The detective only glared at him in response.

"What´s wrong with the freak now?" Sally asked in an annoyed tone and had her arms crossed. Anderson behind her didn´t look much happier.

John had always disliked them, but this time he was pretty sure he hated them now. Did they think he had an asthma attack on purpose?

Now he understood why Sherlock always said how the Yard was brainless.

"He just had an asthma attack and you lot are just standing around and apparently accusing him of doing this on purpose! Have you lost it?!" John finally snapped, Sherlock looked up in surprise; he did not see this coming.

"The freak doesn´t _have_ asthma! This is just another one of his tricks and being overly dramatic!" Anderson argued back.

Lestrade had meanwhile checked out where the smoke was coming from, pressing a tissue over his nose and mouth. With his gloved hand he carefully pushed the corpse aside a bit, accidentally releasing a huge cloud of smoke in the process. He quickly turned to the others and yelled "move!".

John quickly pulled Sherlock up – for once glad about how light his friend was – and heaved him over to the side, away from the smoke. It was already affecting the detective, but he got away with just a few coughs to clear his lungs, as did everyone else.

"You okay?" John asked, still. He just _had_ to make sure his friend was alright.

"Yeah.." Sherlock rasped out. His voice was so hoarse and John had no doubt that his chest was hurting him, even though he would most likely never admit it.

"See? The freak´s alright! Now if we could just do our work, that would be great!" Anderson kept complaining.

Lestrade had caught a bit of the smoke in a sealed plastic bag for analyzing and went over to the bickering. He first directed it to Sally and Anderson. "Calm down everyone! We now know what caused his death, now we just have to figure out _why_ someone did this." He then turned to John, who was crouching beside his friend on the ground. "Better take him to a hospital, we don´t know what this stuff was."

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, although struggling. "NO2", was all he gasped out before John had to hold him up. He was utterly exhausted.

"What?" Sally asked.

"The gas.. it was.. NO2.." This time he had to cough a few times.

"Nitrogen Dioxide? Are you sure?" Lestrade asked.

John grew impatient. Didn´t they have more important matters at hand right now?

"Um. Guys. Can we go over the facts _later? Please?"_

"Right. Sorry."

When they got in a cab, Sherlock told John before he could tell the driver: no hospital. John had wanted to argue, but seeing how drained and utterly exhausted he was just didn´t have the heart. In fact, all that both wanted was to go home and finally relax.

The next day, Sherlock texted Lestrade that the death was accidental because of a gas leak, and that he would find the place blown up by next week so he should make sure no people would go in the area.

He put down his phone and picked up his violin. Over the pouring rain, the neighbors were able to hear the sad tones until the middle of the night.

 **A/N Hello! I hope you are enjoying this story so far! I am happy for any kind of feedback ^^**

 **I have asthma myself and figured "why not write your own story?"**

 **Apologies for my chemical knowledge, I just googled "gas that triggers asthma" and this was the result (another reason why I am not allowed in the kitchen xDD). I don´t know if gas leakages work like this, if not I´m sorry about that ;D**


	5. Aftershocks and big brother

When Sherlock was still playing past midnight and moving towards 1am, John was seething. He hadn´t gotten much sleep over the past weeks since the spaying started, and after today he was completely exhausted.

When you thought about it, how was Sherlock even still on his feet?

Defeated, John shuffled into the living room. "Sherlock, please go to bed." He almost pleaded – he was that exhausted.

Sherlock lowered the bow and his violin and placed them – with a lot of care – on the small table next to him. He didn´t look at John, just walked by and closed the door to his room after entering it. He hadn´t argued or fought back, which was, in John´s logic, a reason to worry. There wasn´t a single doubt in his mind that his friend was still in quite an amount of pain with every breath he took, and that this was the reason why he hadn´t replied.

As much as Sherlock hated to admit, but John was right. With each breath he took, a stabbing pain spread through his chest. A few times he had tried not to breathe because of it. But when the dark spots started dancing in front of his vision, he knew that not breathing was not an option.

He also knew perfectly well from experience, that after an attack like that, more were likely to follow. And at the moment, he loathed that fact. It made him mad.

He couldn´t think. Something about the case today – or rather yesterday, according to the time – was irking him. Something wasn´t right, there was something not right. And he could. Not. Think.

Why couldn´t he think?!

Oh yeah, because the brain needs oxygen to function properly. Oxygen that he still could not provide enough of because his transport was rebelling.

It made him mad. Why did _his_ transport have to be dysfunctional?! It wasn´t his fault!

Well, of course the smoking didn't help matters but he had officially quit.

Even though laying down in bed was putting more pressure on his chest, he couldn't ponder on it for much longer because sleep deprivation and utter exhaustion had pulled him into a rather deep sleep (he had always been a light sleeper).

John woke up at around 9am, silently glad that he didn't work at the surgery anymore. A job and solving cases with Sherlock was just impossible to handle in the long run. He had made himself a coffee, momentarily wondering if Sherlock would be up soon and want one as well. He was contemplating to go check on his flat mate, but decided to let him rest. As long as he didn't hear him suffocating, that is.

At around 12am he was starting to worry. He had been writing on his blog, or trying to, for the past two hours. But he couldn't make it a public fact that his friend had asthma, could he? If someone like Moriarty would come and want Sherlock destroyed, this would give them perfect ammunition for it.

No, he shook his head at himself, he would only mention how he had found the gas and solved the case.

When he checked the time again it was nearing 1pm, and he was getting seriously worried.

Just when he put down his laptop from his lap and went to get up from his chair, the man in question appeared in the doorway. John nearly gasped. He had dark circles under his eyes, he was pale (more so than usual) and just looked dead on his feet, despite being asleep for more than the usual 6 hours of sleep.

"Coffee?" He offered, knowing that if Sherlock didn´t want to do one thing right now, it was talking.  
And apparently he was right, because all he got was a quick nod as he went over to the sofa.

John didn´t question him, he just went into the kitchen and prepared the coffee machine.

Only when he came back with a cup of black coffee and two sugars did he notice the shallow and labored breathing his flat mate was doing. Apparently his airways were still very irritated, causing him to try to breathe as little as possible. John´s eyes shone with sympathy and sadness.

"Here." He handed it over, not expecting a `thank you´.

They sat in silence for a while, until suddenly their door opened and `big brother´ Mycroft stepped in, the familiar click of his umbrella making Sherlock glare at him. John could only imagine how much he wanted his brother visiting right now.

"Hello John. Sherlock." He greeted with his usual tone that just screamed `I know what you did over the last week´. "Mrs Hudson was so kind to let me in, even though I think she´d rather stay in bed with that nasty cold. Wouldn´t you agree?" The question was directed at Sherlock, yet it was John who answered.

"Yeah, she uh.. she´s doing much better these last few days and since we told her about the- uh, mh," he gestured over at Sherlock, "we all figured it would be best to keep her.. isolated from us, just to be on the safe site."

"Ah, yes. It wouldn't do for him to get a cold on top of it." Mycroft agreed, giving his little brother a glance that John could have mistaken for deep concern. Something in their childhood, perhaps? Well, Sherlock´s childhood at least. If he was diagnosed with 14, Mycroft was 21 at the time.

Come to think – Mycroft had told him that his last attack was 5 years ago. The prescription must have run out of date. Sherlock had said he didn't even remember he still had it.

How did it still work?

"Something on your mind, John?" He must have been lost in his thoughts for longer than he anticipated, because Mycroft was giving him a pointed look, expecting an answer to his question. How did they always know when- actually never mind.

"Uh yeah, kind of. You- you said he had his last attack 5 years ago- I mean, before the.." He was stumbling over his words. "How.. how is- I mean, the prescription must have run out of date over that time.."

"Ah yes. I have taken on the responsibility of making sure he always has more than one working rescue inhaler in the flat. I heard you found the one in his bedroom. There is also one in the bathroom behind the toilet and one in the kitchen under the sink." Mycroft explained, as if it was completely normal to do this.

John blanched at him. Sherlock choked on his coffee.

Quite literally.

At first they still hoped it would just stay as a natural response to something in the airways, but to their dismay he started emitting long, dry heaves. The same coughs he had made on the case yesterday, and the same sound that still haunted Mycroft to this day.

With every cough he could feel his chest constricting further and further, cursing his body in his head. He would never have a full on asthma attack in front of his older brother again, he had sworn to himself.

Never again.

Yet here he was, struggling to get even the smallest amount of air into his system, without it being forced out without his consent. He had absolutely no control over it at this point. And Sherlock absolutely despised not having control over his own body.

Before John could jump up to go grab an inhaler, Mycroft had already pulled one out of his pocket and held it out for John to take, knowing that his brother would never take it from him.

John raised an eyebrow, but took it anyway, shook it and handed Sherlock the uncapped inhaler. It took him a moment to register that he was being handed one, but then accepted it gratefully. He needed a moment before he attempted to get the medicine into his lungs, the first try a complete failure as he was coughing right when he pressed down. He tried again and was a coughing mess again the second it touched his airways, but it seemed to help a bit because he managed to stop coughing to try it again and even managed to hold it for about three seconds. He was completely unaware of the concerned stares he was given.

As John´s eyes flicked over to Mycroft when he was certain that his best friend was out of danger, he noticed something in the look he was giving his little brother.

In that very moment, John realized that in Mycroft´s eyes, his brother was threatened. Not by someone, but some **thing** , and he couldn´t protecting him from it.

For a moment he wondered if this was the real reason why he "worries about him, constantly".


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter title: Why me?!

 **Mentions of past abuse and Anderson and Donovan could count as abusive as well**

It took a few days of rest until Sherlock wouldn't stop telling John that he was perfectly fine and ready to go on cases.

Still, both soon came to know that there were good days, and there were bad days. And then there were the days that were worse than bad, when Sherlock had to use the red reliever-inhaler that John had gotten him, and was nagging him to take it every day so that on these bad and worse days, his airways wouldn't be so sensitive to literally anything. But Sherlock insisted that he would only take it if it was absolutely necessary, and even threatened John that he would use it for an experiment and put it in the microwave. John didn't ask him to take it anymore, after that.

He was also horribly stubborn with his rescue inhaler, rather sitting there struggling to breathe for hours before finally using it when John was sure he would pass out in a minute.

And for some ungodly reason it seemed the universe was having fun with this whole situation, because Lestrade only seemed to ask for their help on bad days.

This time was no exception. Lestrade had called for them ten minutes ago, and after not getting an answer from Sherlock, John told him they were thinking about it and would let them know whenever they had an answer.

Sherlock was clearly in a mood. But since the air outside wasn't too hot and dry today, he figured spending some time outside and with a case to think about would help lift his spirits. After just four minutes and 26 seconds of John just rambling about it, Sherlock suddenly shot up from the sofa, went into his room to get dressed and soon they were at New Scotland Yard.

Oh great, John thought as he spotted Sally and Philip and not seeing Greg anywhere as of yet.

"Hello, freak. Been some time since we last saw you, got tired of your little games?" Sally had this nasty grin on her face. Sherlock just ignored her.

"Yeah, what's with all this sudden 'asthma' stuff, anyways. You never had any problems, so just stop playing games and do your damn work that you've been asked to do!" Anderson added.

Before John could say anything, Lestrade finally came into his office room, carrying an evidence bag. "Glad you decided to come, guys. I think this might be interesting for you." He said and opened the bag, then took out the object inside with gloved hands.

At first it just seemed like a blob of melted plastic, but looking closely...

Sherlock's eyes widened. Well, now he finally knew what he had been missing.

"Yeah, thought you'd like it. We found it after the explosion - the one that you said would happen -"

"And your first thought was that it was mine. _But_?" Sherlock deduced the DI.

"We know for a fact that you only had the one John brought, and took with him again. And also, **this** can is _empty_." Lestrade explained.

"So this guy was asthmatic, he walked into the gas leak, it triggered an attack, and his inhaler had run out so he couldn't counter the attack." John took over. Sherlock smiled for a short second.

"Pretty much, yes. We couldn't tell from the autopsy because in death all muscles relax. The question is just why we hadn't seen it before the explosion and why it was so far away-"

"Obvious." Sherlock interrupted. Sally and Philip gave annoyed responses. Greg motioned for him to go on, ignoring his two partners. "He was panicked and when it didn't work, he became enraged and threw it away. He also didn't have his phone with him so he couldn't call for help. Pretty simple, really." He left out the 'when you know what it feels like' and only shrugged.

It didn't seem to help that he didn't add his own experience, because Anderson apparently couldn't leave him be. "Oh just cut the crap already! You do not have asthma for god's sake! You never had and you never will! Is this a new way to seek attention, because your good doctor won't let you use drugs? Is **that** it?"

That hit a nerve. And not just for Sherlock.

Lestrade was almost worried that John might kill Anderson. And he really didn't want to arrest him.

But this time it was actually Sherlock who suddenly jumped into action from being a motionless statue. He had grabbed Anderson's arm, turned it against his back and shoved him against the table, almost making it topple over in the process.

Greg wanted to go between them, but Sally was quicker than him, and surprisingly very strong. She got between her partner and 'the freak' and slammed her elbow against the detective's chest, making him gasp against his will and stumble back, John catching him in his arms.

"Alright **that's enough!** " Lestrade yelled. Though he gave his two Sergeants an angry, and the Baker Street boys a concerned glance. His expression softened. "You can go home. I've got a few words to exchange with these two."

John nodded and led Sherlock out.

Throughout the entire cab ride, the detective hadn't said a word and wasn't even looking at his phone. John was contemplating calling his brother again, because this silence was deeply unsettling.

#

Two days.

For two days straight, Sherlock hadn't said a single word and barely moved from the couch.

He was just laying there curled up in his dressing gown, with his back to John.

John had tried everything. Tea, cases, offering his violin, threatening to call his brother,.. nothing worked.

John had seen him sulking many times. He had seen him heartbroken. But this seemed deeper than just sulking and he definitely wasn't heartbroken. Even though he hadn't been eating and talking for two days straight. He'd also had 3 slight attacks since they had gotten home. And for some reason they got worse whenever John asked what had triggered it.

John had enough.

"Sherlock. Tell me what's going on. _Please_."

He got no response, not even the slightest twitch.

"Sherlock I'm serious, I will call Mycroft. You **can't** keep doing that!" John kept going on.

Then he heard a wheezy gasp. _Oh boy, here we go again_ , John thought bitterly. Because of the previous attacks, Sherlock had kept a rescue inhaler right next to him on the sofa, so all he had to do was grab and use it.

But for some reason, that didn't happen right away and John was already going over to him, when his friend finally moved into a sitting position and was turned towards John, when he frantically shook the inhaler and uncapped it, the cap thrown to the side - John would have to look for it later - and let the medicine do its thing. Fortunately he could still hold his breath for nearly ten seconds since he had acted so soon - John was silently proud of him for that since the last few times - and just had to cough up the little mucus that had built up in his airways.

"Right, so, could you please give me an answer now that doesn't involve you slowly suffocating? That would be great."

Sherlock's glare seemed to be able to kill, but John only returned it.

"I am merely stating a-"

Sherlock mumbled something that John couldn't make out. "Sorry?"

"Parents." He forced out again, coughing a bit afterwards. He was freeing his lungs and bronchi from newly formed mucus, it seemed, and John was tempted to get his stethoscope to listen to his breathing. He was overly concerned that he was getting an infection.

The thought was terrifying.

"Father.. he.." Sherlock was cut off by another few coughs, each one sending a chill down John's spine. "He said.. the same.." He had to stop talking. _Make him stop talking_ , John's mind was screaming at him. He was gasping for air like he'd just run after a criminal all through London and back.

 _Think. What did he mean when he said 'his father said the same'? The same of what? That he'd call Mycroft? Probably not. Okay think. This whole thing started after they got home from the Yard... he didn't seriously mean.. oh please no.._

His eyes seemed to portray his shock as he and Sherlock met eyes. And Sherlock nodded, looking down sadly.

John couldn't believe it. Of course, he had never met his parents, but really? How could they - **he** \- tell his own child that he was just acting for attention, when he had a medical condition?! And one with high mortality at that! Just the guy from the case was a perfect example of what could happen to Sherlock, from a simple broken gas pipe underground!

John felt like crying. At the age of 14 he couldn't have escaped from his family, even though he was sure that Sherlock had tried, and Mycroft wasn't the British Government at the time so he had no rights to take Sherlock with him. What kind of... _abuse_ , could they have done to their son over at least four years?

Sherlock's near hacking of a coughing fit pulled him back to reality. He nodded to himself and got up to get the stethoscope from his medical bag. Being a doctor sure had its perks sometimes.

He kneeled in front of Sherlock and when he showed him the stethoscope, Sherlock pulled off his shirt. John ignored the flinch of the detective when he touched him and told him to take a few deep breaths as he listened first from the front and then from the back, and to his very dismay he could hear a bit of a rattling sound. John gave a sigh, despite wanting to stay 'professional' about this. _He was just another patient, their relationship didn't change that. Just another patient._ John scolded himself.

Then he went over to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. He knew that Sherlock should rinse, rather than swallow it, but he didn't want him to get up just yet. One time wouldnt kill him.

They spent about half an hour in silence, Sherlock sitting hunched over on the sofa with the glass still in his hands, staring down at it. And John sitting in his chair, on high alert, ready to jump into action at any moment - while also contemplating whether he should give Mycroft another call. He didn't want to make Sherlock tell him, but he had this nagging feeling of 'absolutely need to know'.

"He was... he would tell me to stop acting like this, that I didn't have.. _it_. That the doctors were wrong.." Sherlock suddenly started. John watched him with a sorrowful look. "Whenever Mycroft was away, which was a lot, he would give me a slap on the back, like it would make me stop... _acting._ "

John was very tempted to put a hand on his best friend's shoulder, a gesture to let him know that it wasn't his fault, that his father had been wrong. But he feared that this would literally crack his friend's walls that he was barely holding together at the moment.

And John feared that if the wall broke down, that this would be a potential danger night, which he didn't want to put his friend through.

So he did what he always did. Trying to explain the obvious.

"What he did, uh.. what he did was not good."

Sherlock looked up at him with a confused face. "Bit not good?"

John smiled at him. "A big lot not good."

And to his surprise, Sherlock Holmes, the man who saw through everyone and everything in seconds, who didn't care what others thought of him, who risked his life to solve cases not worth his time,.. was smiling.

He was smiling.

And not a fake one he had seen too many times to count.

Not a forced smile.

It was a genuine, relieved, and grateful smile.

And while John barely resisted the urge to break out into a huge grin and wrap his arms around him, Sherlock apparently didn't. John was caught by complete surprise when Sherlock had trapped him in what could only be explained as a bear hug - not afraid that John would shove him away or try to get free.

John felt his heart warm up, almost at the point of melting, when he heard the soft whisper in his ear.

" _Thank you_."

 **A/N THE FEELS! And this is from my own experience. My father keeps telling me this a lot.** **He used to slap me a few times on the back when he was furious with me a few years ago, but I felt like adding this to it.** **Not becoming Johnlock though, sorry to the shippers.**


	7. Not alone

**Warning for abuse in nightmare**

John was used to nightmares. He was used to being tortured by your own mind, waking up screaming and drenched in sweat.

But never in a million years would he have guessed that he would wake up from someone elses screams of terror.

#

 _Sherlock was a young teenager, cowering on his bed as his father kept yelling. "-and another horrible grade! How can you be such a darn know-it-all and bring home grades like this?!" He slapped him with the failed tests on his back and turned away a few steps again, completely enraged._

 _It hadn't been his fault. He got bullied on a regular basis, and he was okay with it, he really was a freak after all. But lately they kept doing this thing when they had a test. They would keep throwing little paper balls at him until he either said something or turned to look at his attackers._

 _His school is very strict and as they kept making him interrupt, well.. it counts as cheating, because apparently all of his teachers are completely blind to all of this. It could also be because every teacher he ever had the misfortune of meeting, seemed to hate his guts because he was smarter than them._

" _-Look at me! You bloody idiot!" his father continued to yell. No. Sherlock wouldnt look at him, because then he would be told to 'stop looking so stupid, thats all you ever do!'_

" _Yes! Just irritate me further! See how well that's going to end for you! You hear me?!" He was closer now.. and the young Sherlock involuntarily flinched as his father raised his much-too-big hand. Surprisingly his father turned away again, and as he was in the doorway Sherlock screamed "COME ON YOU COWARD! I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU!"_

 _Then he only heard his mother scream and he woke up._

"Sherlock! For gods sake WAKE UP!" John had been yelling at him and trying to (gently) slap him awake but his flat mate would only keep writhing and gasping for air.

Suddenly, _finally_ , his eyes snapped open and he gasped deeply. John let out a sigh of relief.

Sherlock pushed himself up a bit and was looking around the room. _It was just a memory.. sort of. God damnit I swear I had deleted all of that!_

John noticed the disturbed look on his friend and offered "you.. wanna talk about it?" with a warm smile.

Sherlock laid back down and closed his eyes. John couldnt tell if it was from embarrassment or something else.

As the detective swallowed he noticed how raw and dry his throat felt, and grimaced at it. John obviously saw it and most likely had been in this situation a lot, and he went to grab his friend a glass of water.

When he came back he saw Sherlock sitting on the side of his bed leaning back on his arms behind him, arching his back and with his head back as well, clearly trying and struggling to breathe.

John took caution and only placed the water on the bed side table. "You okay?"

He half expected him to gasp out a 'fine', but the detective shook his head after a bit of hesitation.

His brain got snapped awake. _Of course, this is a silent attack!_ _Move!_

Wasting no time he went over to the living room and grabbed the inhaler, prepared it and gave it to his friend.

 _Due to the many attacks he'd suffered lately, his entire airways must have been very irritated. The irritated walls emit mucus and with the stress of the nightmare his airways must have closed up much faster. Its commonly called a severe asthma attack, and the high danger of it is what they call silent chest._

For the first time in a while, John really feared he might lose his friend.

When he got his breathing back under control came the fun part. Note the sarcasm. Because all of the unnecessarily produced mucus had to get out of his lungs now. And thus began the next three hours of coughing up everything that was blocking the air exchange. And worst of all, John was sitting right next to him, **the whole time**.

"You know, with all youve been through, I think its perfectly normal to have nightmares." John tried to offer. Sherlock glared at him. John wouldn't understand. He couldn't.

"I still have them from time to time. I won't judge you, you know. You can always come to me an-"

"Shut up."

John was silent then. There was only so much you can do to help.

The next morning, neither of the two was up before eleven. This time it was Sherlock, who emerged from his bedroom first, making himself a cup of tea and then settled back down on the sofa, laying down on his side to look outside the window.

When John came down into the room, the detective was already asleep again, tea untouched and probably cold. Being the doctor he is, he noticed the labored breathing and flushed skin of his flat mate.

He quietly went over and carefully, as not to wake him up, felt his forehead and cheeks with the back of his hand.

A bit warm.

Not good.

A bit really not good.

Aside from the production of excessive mucus to get rid of bacteria, colds tend to be triggers.

He was a doctor, he could do this. But he knew that Sherlock wasnt like any other patient he ever had – and that is saying something.

Sherlock would never admit defeat. He would rather die than let John help him. John would have liked to know why he was this way in the first place, and remembered one conversation. _Nothing made me, John. I made me._

It left him shuddering just thinking just what those words mean.

"John?" A croaking voice startled him back. Looking down, he saw Sherlock looking at him confused.

"I'm here. Did you need something?"

"Why would I need something." It wasn't a question. But John asked it himself as well.

John sighed. "Right. I'm going out for a bit." If Sherlock really got sick, he would need a few things as precaution.

Sherlock didn't answer, and by the looks of it was already on his way back to dream land.

John had gotten a nebulizer, Paracetamol, tiger balm and a few bronchi tea packs. When he opened the door he was met with a sight that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life.

Sherlock was half kneeling – half laying on the floor, weakly coughing and there was _bloody mucus_.

John let his bags to the ground and went over to him.

" **Jesus!** What happened?!"

Sherlock only grimaced and shook his head. John noticed an open pack of what seemed to be ibuprofen, 600mg.

Ibuprofen, along with Aspirin and other NSAIDs, is dangerous for asthmatics, John learned that in his years of training. For one in five asthmatics it ends deadly, depending on how much the body reacts to it.

"Please, _please_ tell me you didnt take these." John pleaded with the detective on the floor as he held out the pack.

Sherlock nodded innocently.

John wanted to scream.

Well, all he could do right now is wait. As long as he isnt literally spitting blood, he should be fine.

"You're an idiot, do you know that? And where did you even get these? We never had Ibuprofen."

Sherlock looked over at the door. "Oh god, don't tell me. Mrs. Hudson gave them to you." John said, facepalming. Good old Mrs. Hudson, always wanting to help.

Sherlock nodded, then started up coughing again.

John carefully watched on. The blood was dry in it, so at least the small wound must have closed. He sighed in relief.

They spent a while like this, until John turned to him and said in a serious tone "never again are you taking anything that's for inflammations, those meds can cause severe asthma attacks and your walls were already severely irritated, it's no wonder you had bloody mucus."

Sherlock did a double take, and John thought he was dreaming. The great Sherlock Holmes didn't know something – very important – concerning his own condition. He could almost imagine Mycroft laughing at the stupidity of his little brother.

 **I was shocked to learn this only recently, but its vital information. This is, again, from my own experience. I had the idea for the start form a nightmare like that (not about grades but everything else), and after I had knee surgery at the end of February this year and had bloody mucus for weeks still, after it, I knew something wasnt entirely right. At the time I just thought it was still from intubation, as I had similar problems after getting my wisdom teeth removed. After the surgery I was on a lot of strong ibuprofen for the first weeks. Ive read a fanfic about asthma last week that had a part where Aspirin triggered it, so I went to google and.. everything I wrote about it in this chapter is information from google.**

 **Stay safe my fellow wheezers xx**


	8. Sorry

"John!"

Inhale.

"Joooohn!"

Exhale.

"JAAAWN!"

"I'm BORED! Do something!"

Inhale.

"John!"

Exhale.

"Im BORED!"

Inhale.

"Where is your gun?!"

Exhale.

It had been two days since he found the detective coughing up bloody mucus, and John…

"HAMISH!"

..Watson was ready for the kill.

* * *

"I dont care if you don't have a guy to catch right now, just cold cases should do! ANYTHING!"

"Okay okay okay, relax, John. I'll see what I can find."

"Please hurry… if he finds my gun I don't think the wall is going to survive, but I can't have him running around catching killers, yet."

"I'll be over in thirty."

"Thanks Greg."

* * *

"No."

"But John!"

"I said no!"

"Please?.."

"Oh so you _can_ say please. Who would have thought?"

"Oh please it's just a word."

"Glad to see youre feeling better."

"So I c-"

"NO! I told you to go get your own laptop if you need to use one! My stuff is off limits!"

"The password is "sherlocksadick"."

"Oh for god's sake!"

* * *

"There has to be something! How did you survive living with him when he's like this?!"

"I'm sorry to say that this is confidential information."

"Mycroft. Your brother has changed my password, of my own laptop, and put a new opening sound so that every time I turn it on it makes the noise that Irene made for Sherlocks messages from her, and for some reason the background is changing every time, with pictures of his _experiments!_ When did he even get the cock of a duck?!"

[...]

"Mycroft? Hello? Oh fantastic…"

 _click_.*

 _*erotic gasp*_

"SHERLOOOOCK! WHAT IN _GODS_ NAME IS THIS?!"

"That would be a close-up of the _[confidential information]."_

Meanwhile at MI6 there is a big outburst of laughter.

* * *

"John?"

"Yes."

"I think my fever is back.."

 _Step Step Step Step Step…_

"John Im sorry!"

 _*Door slam*_

 **Just a bunch of random drabbles of the hardship of living with Sherlock XD Sorry for the long wait, I will probably keep this fanfic as a bunch of one shots that are more or less you have any ideas for the story, feel free to leave them in the comments** **THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT -HUGS-**


	9. A Special Christmas

**So, I was toying with this thought for a pretty long time now: should Sherlock get a dog or not?**

 **Since I am basing this (mostly) on my life, and my dog got trained (by myself, ahem show-off) to help deal with my asthma and go get help if, for example, I faint. If you want to see pictures and videos of him, my instagram is xenay99 and picture is me with him in black and white filter. I am not telling you this to follow me; only so you can get an idea of what I am making Sherlocks dog (because he is a lilac (color) Chihuahua, and we cant give him something mundane now can we? He also gives alarm on people who drank alcohol or took drugs or are carrying either - I know this perfectly because I live in a high house with a drug dealer and at least 5 alcoholics.) so that just adds even more as to why I have Mycroft getting him this specific dog.**

 **That said, on with the story!**

The streets are white, a deep snow covering it, and more flakes are falling. Its late evening, so the sun has already set and only the street lights create a warm yellow-ish light on the streets. Only once in a while, there is a person walking on the otherwise deserted streets, coming home from work or shopping last minute gifts.

Aaahh, Christmas. For many people one of the most beautiful times of the year. How mundane.

People, who are seemingly only spending time together a few days a year, coming together with gifts for family that they have no clue what they even like, and some probably dont even know what job or how many kids they have.

Well, Sherlock doesnt really see the point of this specific holiday. He likes not being surrounded by stupidity - John is of course excluded. Molly and Lestrade have come to visit again, like every year. But this Christmas was going to be something very special, very soon.

The tables are set, the feast is served, the candles are lit.

The candles are lit.

Mrs Hudson will never cease that one tradition where every god forsaken candle in the house **must** be lit on Christmas Eve.

Sherlock doesnt even sit down at the table, he strides over to his room.

„Are you not hungry, Sherlock dear?"

Oh sweet, naive Mrs Hudson. God bless her.

„No."

Without another word he goes into his room, closes the door and opens his window.

Mrs Hudson gave a small oh and started serving John and their guests.

Suddenly their door opens and a surprise (to all of them) guest enters the room. „Ah right on time I see", he says as he walks over to the table on Sherlocks place next to John, leaving the flat door open.

„Mycroft! What a... surprise." John says without much enthusiasm. Of course they had been planning Sherlocks gift for a while but he definitely didt expect him to come by in person.

Speaking of the gift.. „Where is you-know-what?" He whispered to him.

„On its way. Where is my brother?"

Mycrofts question was answered without a word in a matter of seconds when Anthea brought in a small silver and golden.. Chihuahua, wearing a black dog vest with the word „SECURITY" on the sides with removable velcro. She was leading him with a matching leash into the flat, when suddenly the dog gave a bark and ran over to Sherlocks door, Anthea dropping the leash from her hand.

All eyes from the table were now staring between John, Mycroft, and the dog that was scratching at Sherlocks door.

At long last the door opened, and Sherlock gave a small cough and asked „what in the world is going-"

His eyes fell on the dog that was standing on its hindlegs now, front paws on Sherlocks knees - the furthest it could reach.

„Merry Christmas..?" John said unsure. He knew from what Mycroft told him, that Sherlock was a massive dog person and grew up with one. But maybe this could have been their worst mistake.

„John. There seems to be a dog in our flat." Sherlock said, not really sure what was going on.

„He is yours, brother. As John said, Merry Christmas." Mycroft said, getting up from the table.

Anthea just stood there, unsure wether she could leave or if the plan backfired and she had to take the dog back - even though she had to admit she would have loved to get him herself.

„Hes.. mine?" Sherlock looked perplexed, bent down to a crouch - the dog slipping back on the ground and wagging his curled tail - and held out his hand for him to sniff.

John, and literally everyone in the room, couldnt help but smile. John went over to him, Sherlock would probably appreciate an explanation.

„He is a Chihuahua with a pretty special color, and he will support you from now on." John said carefully.

„Whats his name?" Sherlock asked and John isnt sure if he was even listening, he was petting the little dogs head affectionately.

„Well.. his name is Nicky but I guess you can always decide on something else."

After a few awkward minutes of watching their favorite detective and his new dog bond, John decided to risk it. „Do you want to come eat with us now?" His own voice is so careful that even John grimaces.

Sherlock looks up at John and it takes two seconds for the doctor to notice the inhaler in Sherlocks pocket.

„So thats why he barked, he must have smelled the- uh.. medication." Sherlock only nodded in what is barely noticeable if you werent directly in front of him like John.

„Is it stress, or..?"

Sherlock shakes his head once. „Paraffins."

„Paraffins?" John had to admit he wasnt familiar with that term.

„Candles." Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes.

John turned around to survey the room. There were at least 12 lit candles in the living room and kitchen.

He made to speak up when Sherlock nudged his shoulder rather hard. When John looked at him he shook his head and gave a sign that he would murder him if he said a word.

Sometimes John found it rather adorable how Sherlock is to Mrs Hudson. He knows how much their landlady loves these holiday traditions, and its just for a day, or two max, he just had to stay away as long as the candles were lit.

John made a mental note to buy paraffin-free candles for next year.

Mycroft wasnt fully pleased with his brothers actions, so he kept the part of the dog being a drug sniffer a secret from him. At least for now.

 **Make yourself ready for SherlockxDog fluff the next time xDD And please do tell if you rather have him called Gladstone (as it is our fandoms tradition it seems) or something else, or if you like the name as it is :)**

 **I know its pretty early to say this but by the time everyone has seen this... HAPPY HOLIDAYS, MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!**


	10. Dog Days

"John!"

"..."

"Joooohn!"

"..."

"JohnJohnJohnJohn-!"

"Alright alright, I'm coming. What is it?" The ex-doctor came into the living room, where the detective was awaiting him anxiously, and the little dog was sitting on the sofa, watching him intently.

"Check this out." He turned to John. "Ask him who a smart dog is."

John sighed, shaking his head. He had a feeling where this is going. He went over to the dog, just to please his flatmate.

"Who is a smart dog?"

The dog on the couch lifted his front paw up high, like a student that knows the answer, wavering a little.

"Brilliant, isnt it? I have _got_ to teach him to point to Anderson every time someone calls him an incompetent being at his job." Sherlock said gleeful.

"You mean, every time _you_ call him an idiot." John pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thats what I said, isnt it? Well. We have to get to a crime scene so he can learn this." Sherlock said, grinning. He went over to put on his belstaff, when John realized that he was serious.

"You are _not_ taking the dog to a crime scene!"

It turned out that for one, they were already asked to come to a crime scene before Sherlock made John watch the trick hes taught his new dog, and for two, if Sherlock wants something, it happens, wether everyone else is alright with it is another song completely.

Well, it's not exactly that they noticed it at first, but when Sherlocks chest suddenly growled and barked when Anderson made a stupid remark, which caused a round of arguments - or rather a banter of "idiot" and "freak", which at some point ended with them pushing each other...

It was all rather a blur.

"You had him under your bloody coat, just to bring him to a crime scene, which is _nothing_ for a small dog as him, mind!" John was yelling at him.

"You should know that it breaks a dogs heart if you leave them alone at home while you go out for hours enjoying yourself." Sherlock argued.

"Mrs Hudson is at home! She could spoil him for all we know, and yet you are so reckless about this! What if someone tripped over him, or he runs off and got hit by a car, or worse - a serial killer-..."

"John, please don't underestimate him. He has 26 times the brain cells that Anderson uses."

John's eye twitched.

"HE IS. A _DOG!_ " He yelled, once again, at the detective, who already had the dog securely hidden under his trusty long black coat.

"If you say so."

And that was that.

#

John didn't know what he was seeing, but he knew for sure that nowadays nothing about his best friend could surprise him anymore.

It felt like he was watching Dr. Doolittle.

"I know, I know, you want to lay on my lap right now, but John said I have to sit at the kitchen table and _eat_." He said the last word like it was a curse word.

"Yes I know! Go complaining to John, not me!"

John watched the dog, as it first kept staring at Sherlock, and then turned to him with the most adorable puppy face.

John sighed. "I said he isnt allowed in the kitchen. What if one of your experiments explodes again?"

"Tell that to him, not me! And all my experiments are safely contained." Sherlock complained.

"Yeah well that sure is calming, because those eyeballs-"

Sherlock put his face into his hands. "Oh don't start with the eyeballs again. I already apologized _and_ bought you a new microwave!"

Suddenly the dog on the floor between them barked, and all eyes went to him.

"Oh FINE! Come here!" Sherlock said, slapping his hand on his lap a few times to invite him.

The dog didnt waste a second and ran over to his chair and jumped on his lap.

"Well, I guess Ill just have to eat it here, after all." Sherlock said, smirking and fondling the silky fur.

John had nothing more to say to that, since the detective did in fact eat.

#

The one thing they were in a disagreement about was dog traits.

Sherlock insisted on training him without them, since they dont bond the dog with the owner, but with the want for food.

Sherlock was currently in the bathtub - he dislikes showers - and so John and the dog (who Sherlock refuses to call by its name) were alone in the living room.

John was sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper in his armchair, when the small dog jumped on the couch, sat down near his side, and started whimpering.

John lowered the newspaper for a second - which turned out to be a second too long - and when he saw those big, pleading eyes, he just... melted.

He quickly looked around, making sure that Sherlock wouldnt come out within the next few minutes, and quietly got up and went over to a cabinet where he kept the dog treats. The dog was following him.

"But just one." John said, and gave him one.

One turned into two, three... somewhere around fifteen before he snapped back to reality, because he heard the tell-tale water splashing of Sherlock getting out. John quickly put the treat pack back, went ninja-mode (because he swore that Sherlock could hear just as much as a dog) back to his chair, picked his papers back up and pretended that he never got up.

The dog resumed his previous position, nagging John again.

Five minutes later the bathroom door opened and Sherlock came out, still ruffling his hair with a towel but otherwise already dressed.

"Fascinating." He suddenly said.

John looked up from his papers. "What is?"

"Your obvious inability to resist a dogs pleading eyes. Also: how many times do I have to tell you to stop giving him treats?! He already gained a pound because Mrs Hudson is just as bad!"

John gave him an apologetic look.

"Well, go make up for it. Take him for a two hour run or something." Sherlock said, throwing the leash at him.

John stammered for a second. "Are you going to join us? You normally don't let anyone else touch him for more than two minutes."

Sherlock sank down in his own chair with a sigh. "No.. the little ferret face wont leave me alone all day, and my chest has been kind of tight since last night. I dont think going for a run in this biting cold air is going to do me any good."

John nodded in understanding, and couldn't help thinking a quick thanks to the dog, because since they had him in their life, Sherlock has become more responsible about his health. Even if he still won't use his inhalers unless its absolutely necessary.

"Well, see you later then." John said, grabbing a small dog-sweater, dressed the dog and connected the leash to his vest.

Sherlock was already busy on his phone and only waved his hand dismissively.


	11. The Man

„John, have you seen him?" Sherlock asked from behind John, who was sitting in his chair after getting their laundry out of the dryer.

John shook his head, „no", and picked up his cup of tea.

Sherlock made a clicking noise with his tongue and then whistled. Then he slapped his hand on his upper leg a few times.

John turned to him bemused as he sat down his cup. „You know, it might help if youd just call his name?"

Sherlock grimaced, as if that action was the hardest thing in the world, and left.. He went to check all rooms, John figured.

Five minutes later, the detective came back into their living room with the laundry basket in his hands, in which on the warm clothes, the missing dog was curled up.

John laughed at the sight. Sherlocks face was a mixture of emotions.

„He tried to bite me when I tried to touch him." He said, sounding completely at a loss.

John smirked. „Well it would seem that even your own dog has enough of you."

Sherlock glared. „You try to get him out. I dont want his hairs all over freshly cleaned clothes." He snapped and handed him the basket.

John awkwardly took it and placed it on the floor. „Well then.." He was almost touching the fur when Nicky suddenly growled and bared his teeth, which looked actually terrifying and he backed away. He shared a glance with Sherlock. He thought for a moment. „Let me test something." John turned back down to the dog. „Nicky, Work." He commanded and the dog only gave a heavy sigh.

„Guess its his day off, then." Sherlock said. John and him shared a glance. „Just wait till the doorbell rings." John said.

Sherlock shrugged.

Nicky left the basket about half an hour later when the laundry had cooled down.

#

Sherlock had taken to carrying him around all day lately, and even though it had made him calmer, it was starting to get on John's nerves.

„Sherlock, stop carrying him around all the time. He is a dog, as you seem to forget." John snapped when Sherlock came back from standing at the window with him in his arms. „He needs to walk on his own, you know. Its bad for his metabolism." He managed to sound gentle.

Sherlock looked down at the dog in his arms. Then looked back up at John. „Fine." And grabbed one of Nickys jackets on his way out.

John jumped up and went after him.. them.

When John caught up with them he was surprised to find that the dog was not wearing anything but the jacket.

„Sherlock, where is his harness?"

„He is a _dog_ , John. He needs his freedom."

John blinked at him. „Sherlock! He is supposed to always wear it when youre out with him! Its his working harness!"

Neither said a word until Nicky decided that a spot, right on the snow covered pavement, was a good place to put his little fertilizer.

Sherlock, with his hands in his coat pockets, made no move to pick it up in a bag.

„Well?" He said to John, who seemed very annoyed at what was implied with that one word.

„Oh, so now this is my job, too, huh?"

„Why else are you here for? I am perfectly capable of taking him on a walk on my own." Sherlock was the one to snap this time. It was a vicious cycle, really. John kept worrying about Sherlock ever since he knew about his... _condition_ , and, in turn, made Sherlock tense, self conscious and horribly annoyed.

It was not without reason, if he was being honest, since the night of New Years Eve. It was not his fault; the people had started with their fireworks hours before it was even _close_ to midnight, and the air was so full of the ashes and car exhaust form last-minute shoppings (because apparently shops are only open _this_ year and not the next, or whatever it is that was going through their heads) and _then_ some family with a child that could barely even walk had to start ground fireworks maybe five feet from them- well long story short, John had to literally drag him into the safety of their home since neither had brought an inhaler for the short walk they had intended on going with Nicky.

But still, Sherlock was completely capable of taking his small dog on a walk. He could be trusted. He was carrying an inhaler on himself in his coat on all times and -

Nicky suddenly ran off.

John was bringing the, _ahem_ , poo-bag to a trash bin designed for it, so Sherlock ran off after him without John.

Despite the biting cold air he managed to keep up - youd be surprised how fast a Chihuahua can run - and suddenly, a few streets away from John, Nicky turned into an alley.

And he growled.

For a moment all Sherlock could see was darkness. Then he smelled the smoke of cigarettes in the air and quickly moved his elbow before his face.

„Ah, William. Never thought Id see you again." A sadly very familiar voice said, and made his blood run cold.

The man stepped closer to him. „In fact, after your dear _brother,_ I didnt think I would ever see the sun again." The voice did not sound glad to see him.

Nicky, down at his feet, was growling even more fierce and Sherlock feared he would attack if this man came one step closer.

As it was, coming closer wasnt the worst case.

He had come directly in front of Sherlock, forcibly pulled his arm from his face and with his other hand he grabbed around his throat.

Nicky went into a complete berserk mode, barking, growling, biting, jumping, scratching...

But his size was a severe disadvantage.

Meanwhile, John had gone back to where he had last seen his friend and dog. "Where have those two gone off to, now?" He wondered out loud.

Suddenly he heard a loud, non-human scream a few streets further down the road, and he felt his heart skip a beat. Because that scream had come from one specific species, of one specific breed, of one specific dog. One dog that has lived with them for almost three weeks now.

And he was running right towards him, seemingly out of nowhere, and barked at John furiously, begging him to follow.

If anyone would ever ask him when he had run the fastest of his life, John would have told them this was the time. Not running for his life in Afghanistan, not chasing criminals (or like in this case, more like chasing after Sherlock), but this.

His heart was racing.

Because if Nicky left Sherlock alone to get John, it could only mean one thing,

Sherlock was in trouble.

It had all happened so fast. One moment The Dog had been trying to defend him, to protect him; and the next, Sherlock was on the cold ground, passed out from being strangled and The Man was trying to beat his response-less body into oblivion.

"STOP IT!" John yelled as he skidded to a halt, Nicky jumping at the stranger who was towering over his owner. He managed to bite him in the hand and the guy let out a surprised yelp.

"Keep away from me you naked little beast!" He commanded but Nicky would not let loose. He just bit down harder and scratched at the guy, whose hand was by now dripping with blood.

John took that moment of distraction to knee him down on the ground - next to Sherlock - and sat down on his back, holding his free hand with one and his phone in the other, and speed-dialled Lestrade.

"Lestrade? I got you a present." John told him where he was and to bring an ambulance, with only the information that Sherlock took a hit or two.

#

"A hit or two?! He looks like hell be lucky if he has one spot of normal skin, in-between the millions of bruises!" Lestrade commented when he checked out his consultant.

"Yeah, well.. guess that just adds a few years for the guy, doesnt it?"

Lestrade bit his lip. "Actually, the guy just got out a few weeks ago." John stared at him. "What?"

"Hes a drug dealer, John."

 **DUN DUN DUUUUN! Yeah I felt like "its not a Sherlock story if there isnt a mentioning of drugs. There is more to come from this, like a two part-er. But no drug use, I promise! Even if his people doubt him.**

 **Sorry, once again, for the delay. Hope this longer Chapter counts as an apology.**

 **I just have** ** _so much_** **bad luck going on, like, you wouldnt believe it, its so ridiculous. And its not over yet, and who knows what the future holds. Already hate this year.**

 ***The part with Nicky in the warm laundry is something that I had originally wanted to put into "Dog Days".. aaaand two hours after I posted it I realized that I had completely forgotten to write it down as well. So I put it in here. Whoops.**


	12. Unbreakable Trust

**Guys, I got an electric violin :3 and while putting rosin on the bow hairs I noticed just how much there is like a dust cloud, and since we havent had Sherlock having a written attack... -evil grin-**

What a week.

It didnt feel like a week at all - more like a month, to John.

Sherlock had three bruised ribs, and was covered in all shades of bruises seemingly from head to toe. When the paramedics arrived, he had been unconscious - thank god - and therefore Nicky was overly protective. They had to take him with them, just to be able to tend to the beaten up detective.

In fact, the Chihuahua got to stay with them the entire time at the hospital. (John was the one to take care of him for that time.)

John suspected that Mycroft had something to do with it.

Speaking of Mycroft, the suspect had been "taken care of and will not bother you and Sherlock again" - he had said in a text. John didnt ask.

When John had asked Sherlock who the guy was, the answer he got was "its not important what his name is, as long as The Man is now forever gone."

To which John gave an annoyed reply of "oh, so now we got The Woman, The Dog and The Man. Sounds like a lovely book title, dont you think? ... Its a wonder that you call me John."

He didnt get a reply because the detective was fast asleep.

#

There was something about the belstaff. Nicky was always growling at it when it wasnt being hid - John had gotten annoyed after a while, because he couldnt figure out what was wrong with it, so he hid it on the backside of his room door (Nicky surprisingly never goes up to his room).

And also that way Sherlock couldnt just leave.

John was just entering the living room when Sherlock got his violin and bow out of its case. He paused. "Are you sure its a good idea to play it so soon?"

Sherlock didnt look at him and just pretended he hadnt heard him, and proceeded by getting out the rosin as well and then sat down in his chair, violin resting against his chest as he removed the little cap.

John went into the kitchen to get the tea pot going.

As he filled two cups (Sherlock usually wanted some too and he didnt want to have to walk twice), he stared at the detective again, and noticed that he was becoming agitated, and seemed lost in thought as he rapidly applied way too much rosin, with more force/pressure than he should.

"Sherlock?"

The movements became more frantic.

"Sherlock!"

John watched as a horse hair succumbed to the pressure and snapped. He strode over and made to grab his frantic moving arm from harming the delicate bow any more.

"Sherlock!"

"WHAT?!" The detective snapped at him, and in his fury he had pulled his arm from Johns firm hand and managed to slam it in full movement on the bow.

A big white cloud immediately spread from the bow and both turned their upper bodies away, each with an arm covering their faces.

Sherlock began frantically flapping his free arm, trying to clear the dust cloud while John went over to open the window.

After a few tense moments they both ended up coughing, though Johns brain immediately went into a panic. Not only did the detective have a bunch of bruised ribs - which must hurt like hell - but the tiniest, subtlest cough from the detective had his mind scream "asthma attack! Code blue!".

Sherlock really should have controlled himself. He knew better than to let his emotions out on his precious instrument. No matter which part of it.

He just couldnt figure it out. He _knew_ that.. The Man, had done something. Something other than turn him into a smurf.

Something to do with drugs, if Nickys reaction was anything to go by.

Sherlock wasnt stupid, hed made the connection when the small dog kept growling at this monster. Of course he would smell the drugs from a mile away, that guy had so many bags on him that even Sherlock could smell it through the plastic bags and his (very smelly) jacket.

He knew it was _somewhere_ in his belstaff. He must have planted it somewhere on the inside, because it was open when he woke up in the ambulance, and his ribs were bruised in places that are most probable from someone kneeling on them.

He didnt know where exactly he had hid.. whatever he hid, in it. And the even bigger problem was: how was he going to get _rid_ of it without anyone noticing?

The entire topic of recreational substances and the name Sherlock Holmes, always put everyone on edge enough as it was. Imagine their reactions if the former Junkie suddenly had a baggie hidden in his room.

And in an attempt to calm his anxiety-filled nerves he had gone to grab his violin, and John - _good lord, JOHN!_ \- had to comment on his actions once again. Because, _no_ , it wasnt _too soon_ , because if he needed his instrument then he could be in any amount of pain and still play it.

So he had gone and messed everything even more up. He didnt mind so much that he broke a hair - it just happens from time to time, it was a normal occurrence.

No. He had managed to use so much rosin on them that there had already been much of it in the air. But he just _had_ to make it even _worse_ , by ripping himself free and right into the freshly, overly rosined hairs and now..

 _Now_ he was paying for it because he could already feel the stinging, burning tightness in his bronchi, and the sharp pains from his already bruised ribs.

 _God dammit._

John was coughing next to him and rushed over to open the window, while he tried to clear the cloud.

His own coughs were sounding a lot different from Johns. And he didnt know where his inhaler was right now (he remembered it was in his belstaff pocket _before_ he was at the hospital, but after that the pocket was empty. He suspected that ' _he'_ had taken it in exchange for the drugs.) and only managed to give John a pleading look.

The doctor seemed to understand and ran off to grab one.

His violin, which was still kind of resting against his chest, suddenly felt ten times heavier. With a shaking hand he grabbed it at the finger board and gently placed it down at his feet; same with the bow afterwards.

For a moment he wondered where Nicky was, but then remembered that he had run off the moment he must have felt his anger.

John came back in, just as Sherlock erupted into painful hacks and wheezy breaths. He had shaken it on his way back to his friend and quickly uncapped it, then handed it over.

While trying to hold his breath long enough to let it spread out into his lungs, Sherlock wondered how many times they had this exact situation by now.

He felt some sort of warm fuzz as he thought how he could always count on his doctor. His _friend_.

He suddenly broke into a genuine smile.

"You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock coughed a bit into his elbow, cleared his throat and smiled even more at him. "More than you know."

John didnt ask what he meant. Apparently his friend had seen something that he didnt. Or thought something. Or remembered something.

Meanwhile, a certain dog had been up in Johns room, not able to resist the smell of cocaine any longer, and had been jumping up to grab the bottom of the heavy, long coat until he finally got it down.

He pushed it up with his snout to get under it and searched for the spot where the smell was strongest. He found it on the inside; the seams that attached the arm had been cut and Nicky made quick work getting the small, hidden bag out of it, growling slightly as he did.

The two men had heard the noises, now that their shock had cleared. They both shared a glance and leaped up the stairs - Sherlock still a bit shaky on his legs but not stopping.

They found the belstaff on the floor, just behind the door, and right in that moment Nicky came backing out from under it with the little plastic bag, filled with white powder, in his snout.

Sherlock felt his heart skip. _NO! Bad dog! Oh god.._

Both stood paralysed as he brought the bag to their feet, wagging his tail because he did a good job, and waiting for a praise.

John was the first one to move, and he crouched down to pick it up and pet him at the same time.

Sherlock carefully cleared his throat, "John, whatever youre thinking right now, its not what it looks like."

John stood up much too quick for Sherlocks liking.

" _Not what it looks like?! NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE?! It looks_ _ **very**_ _much like cocaine to me!"_ John yelled at him and shoved the baggie to the detectives chest.

"IT _ISNT_ MINE! _He_ hid it in my coat when he knocked me out! John I _SWEAR!_ "

They both locked eyes. _Please John, believe me.._

They stood like this in silence for a few moments.

"You promise? You arent.. you know." John said softly.

Sherlock shook his head, and even pushed up his sleeves to show his bare arms.

John heaved a sigh of utter relief. He actually felt his eyes tearing up and pulled his friend into a hug.

Sherlock flinched from both not being used to physical affection, and the many bruises littering his body. But he didnt pull away.

Because in a sense he knew that it was not only John who needed it right now.

 **Just wanted to say a few things:**

 **1\. Im dyslexic and sometimes not even my software can pick up all mistakes, so if you find** ** _anything_** **, be it "its its" or two letters mixed up or even an entire wrong word,** ** _please_** **tell me, because it helps other readers and myself.**

 **2\. This story will probably never end xD**


	13. The Worst Triggers

**Sorry for the delay. Apparently being betrayed by the rare people youve trusted for almost 10 years, autism and chronic clinical depression dont mix well.**

 **Also I dont remember if I said that pollen dont trigger him. If I did Ill change that. There are a lot of things mentioned here. As for the appointment, I still have to write the chapter of the past that got his diagnose. I had it planned since chapter 6 and 7 and still struggle with finding the words.**

 **Also for those who didnt know: laughter is the worst and most cruel asthma trigger there is.**

 **PS god I hate my life right now.**

#

Aaaaah, allergy season. How lovely.

Note the sarcasm.

It isn't enough of a problem to be hypersensitive to certain air conditions.

No. Every damn tree that you're allergic to is letting their pollen loose, and exactly Those trees are all the trees around our area.

Life certainly can be cruel.

When you can't even open a window because the "fresh" air is more full of trash than stuffy old room air.

When you have to wear a mask over your nose and mouth outside to filter the air.

And sometimes even get attacks completely randomly.

John was out on a walk with Nicky, as he had for the past few days since the massive pollen flight started.

It also hadn't rained in weeks - a rare occurrence in London. John had to reign himself in, to keep from the feelings of pity he felt for his flatmate.

He first started to notice when Sherlock had been sneezing _a lot_ , and after he asked him if he was alright, the detective had answered with "stupid nature."

After further investigation he had learned that Sherlock is allergic to the pollen of alder trees, birches, oak trees, and even more inconveniently: grass. All of which are found all around baker street. (I dont know if the trees are in London, but they are some of the many that I am allergic to, as well as grass.)

It also explained why he loved bees so much. At least John thought it was a valuable reason, since all plants that bees collect the pollen of don't leave them straying in the air.

Sherlock was, understandably, not in the best mood. He laid lethargic on the couch and wondered when he would have to take his antihistamines again. His entire chest felt gooey and numb, yet he could feel each breath travelling through his bronchi, despite having taking his red preventer inhaler in the morning and evening the past few days.

When John and Nicky got back, Sherlock hadn't moved. The small dog jumped up on the couch on the small empty space next to his legs, and was sniffing the detective as if to see if he was still alive.

At least that got a reaction, when the detective opened his eyes to look at him and started petting his soft fur.

John frowned when he didn't say a word. "Come on, enough sulking already."

Sherlock sighed at the words.

John groaned inside. Sherlock was such a child sometimes-

Child?

He broke out into grin and approached his friend. "Ifyou're going to keep acting like a child, I have no other choice but to treat you like one."

"What are you talking ab- JOHN NO!" He yelled when John started tickling him on his sides.

Then he broke out into hysterical laughter, all the while begging; _begging_ John to stop.

John, of course, thought it was just his pride not wanting to be seen as "human".

"Laughter is the best medicine, Sherlock. Everyone knows that." The doctor said, not letting up in the slightest and almost laughing himself.

Until Sherlock didn't make a sound, that is. He looked like a character trapped in an animation loop: he was still in the motions of laughing, but he made no sound. At all.

Suddenly he gave a long, high pitched gasp and laughed a bit again, before repeating the previous cycle of long silence and then gasping.

John frowned and removed his hands. "Sherlock?"

The detective immediately sat up, pressed a hand to his chest and gave long, deep, painful coughs.

John stared at him in shock. "Jesus.." He had definitely _not_ seen that one coming. But that didn't matter right now. Wasting no further time, he raced into the bathroom where he remembered Mycroft saying he had inhalers hidden. He could hear Sherlock still hacking like that, and in his haste dropped it twice before he finally got his shaking hands under control.

He sprinted back out, preparing the medication and handing over the uncapped blue plastic, containing the sweet salvation his friend needed right now.

Sherlock had grabbed it, but couldnt use it for almost a minute because the spasms just wouldn't let up.

The second he got a few calm moments, he forced the deepest inhale he could muster as he sprayed the medicine into his mouth.

He had to press a hand to his mouth to keep himself from coughing it all out before it had a chance to work, and John watched how his torso gave spasms as his horribly irritated airways thought the medicine was just more of triggering pollen or something.

John - and Nicky - watched in silence as Sherlock coughed again; this time to clear his airways of the mucus that had built in the time they were irritated.

He took his second puff, and he could finally feel his airways opening up again. His chest still burned with every breath, as if the air was hot, flowing lava.

John decided to sit next to him and gently rubbed his friends back.

The doctor noticed that his friend was trembling, especially his hands.

Sherlock noticed John staring and gave a short explanation of "side effect.. meds."

John stopped moving his hand minutely. How had he not noticed that before? (..because I always forgot to write it down. Sorry.)

Just then Sherlocks phone gave a chime, signalling that he had received a text message.

John reached over to get it without a word. He was used to getting his phone to the detective. He frowned when he saw the name of the sender.

"It's from Mycroft."

Sherlock gave a hoarse groan.

John read the message anyways. "I think it is time you see your lung specialist again. MH" He frowned again. "When's the last time you've been to one?"

"Since I got my first inhaler, and the diagnosis."

John thought for a moment. "Weren't you, what, 15 at the time? Thats way too long to go without check-ups." He softly scolded, still feeling bad for having triggered his friend.

Sherlock said nothing.

He had bad memories of the time he had to endure the tests, and wasn't fond of the idea of having to go through all of that again. To "see how severe the condition" is.

John seemed to notice, because he could see his friend tensing up and frown. "If you want, I can come with you. It's really not a problem." He said, smiling at him reassuringly.

"I'll think about it."

#

 **So this is sort of what happened around a week ago, but I was laughing at something on TV, and it escalated WAY too quickly. Also that is how I laugh - when I do. Its sort of a thing for asthmatics to only smile, and laugh on the iniside, because it can trigger at the worst time.**

 **For those who dont know much about asthma like that: if laughter triggers you, it means your bronchi arent as controlled as they should be and you should see your specialist and/or get a change in your treatment plan. Also the next chapter will be with accurate descriptions of what the tests are all about. c: (Hopefully it will be out sooner than how long it took me to finally update.)**


	14. A Day At The Doctor

**This was surprisingly painful to write.**

They were in the waiting room, and John noticed that Sherlock was tense. It didn't take a genius to know that the detective didn't want to be here.

"Mr. Holmes?" They both perked up at the nurse. "The room is ready for you." She said and pointed to one of the two doors on the right, that was open.

Sherlock sighed as he got up and went after her.

"Want me to come with you?" John asked him. Partially because he wanted to learn something new. And partly because he wanted to be moral support for his friend.

"Do whatever pleases you." Sherlock said and just kept walking. John followed in after him.

The room wasn't very big. And in the middle at the wall opposite of the door was a small, see-through plastic cabin with a stool and a pipe contraption.

Sherlock still knew the drill and went into the cabin. The nurse who was already in the room at the computer gave him a mouth piece and a nose clip.

Once she installed the mouth piece for him and he had taken place on the stool she closed the door, clicked on the computer and then told him to put on the nose clip.

"Now take the piece in your mouth and breathe normally." She told him through a microphone and John figured that there was a little amplifier in the cabin.

"Alright, there will be resistance for a few seconds but just continue to breathe normally." She told him next.

Inside the cabin, Sherlock felt ridiculous with John watching. He just followed the instructions and soon the nasty 'click!' closed something inside the contraption and he couldn't breathe in or out for around five seconds. "You're doing great." The nurse commented. Sherlock just wanted her to shut up. "Okay, resistance one more time. Just keep breathing like before."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but just kept on breathing, just to keep her happy.

"Okay, now breathe in deep fast, and then push the air back out for as long as you can."

And this was the part that Sherlock hated the most. Because the nurses always wanted him to keep going even though he didn't have any more air to breathe out, and with the nose clip he couldn't breathe unless he let go of the mouth piece and gasp for air while he ripped off the nose clip.

He still did the best to his abilities. "Come on, longer! Try again."

He mentally sighed. But he figured he didn't have much of a choice.

After the third try the nurse told him to come back out.

He had to keep the mouth piece, because they will repeat the test after he'll get asthma inducing chemicals. "You can go over to the next room." The nurse told him and went back to the computer.

Neither John nor Sherlock said a word on their short way to the other room.

This room had a scale, a measuring device on the wall, and a table stood in the middle of the room.

On the table was another machine, and it had a bag on the top, and a tube.

Another nurse came to them and asked Sherlock about his height, weight and age.

Then she asked him to take the seat on the other side of the machine - the one with the tube.

She explained that there will be chemicals filled into the bag and he'll have to breathe it in. First for 10 seconds, then 20 and then 30.

Sherlock remembers how the nurse had canceled the test after the second treatment because he couldn't catch his breath after a nasty coughing attack.

He nodded and waited for the machine to fill up the bag.

"Alright, first dose is ready." She told him. Sherlock took the end of the tube into his mouth and breathed the stuff into his lungs until the timer was at zero.

"Alright?" The nurse asked, even though the first dosage barely does anything. He nodded.

"Okay. Number two." She said and pressed a button, and the bag filled with the almost milky air.

"Okay, you can." And so he did.

Near the last five seconds he was getting the urge to cough and the second it hit zero he took the piece out of his mouth, turned away and coughed for a few moments.

"Can we continue?" The nurse asked after giving him a moment to catch his breath.

Reluctantly he nodded, and she told the computer to start up number three.

"Okay, last time." She told him and Sherlock took the tube with dread up to his face.

It hurt the second he breathed in the first time and couldn't stop himself from wincing. But he kept breathing the stuff in, even thought every fibre in his body was screaming at him to stop.

He still had four seconds left when he gave up. His lungs had had enough of the abuse and wanted to get rid of everything that didn't belong there. Though by the painful sound of it that had both John and the nurse wincing, he may as well be coughing up his insides.

"Alright, when you're ready we'll go back to the other room and once we're done you get the antidote." The nurse told him gently.

It took two minutes until he could finally stop his coughing. His lungs hurt. They burned like a blue fire was burning in them, and stabbing like a dozen of little scalpels each time he took a breath - or had air moving through them in general.

They repeated the tests from earlier, and the nurse seemed to have taken pity on him because she didn't make him repeat the last one.

The other nurse who had filled his lungs with this dreadful poison had already readied an inhaler and a middle piece for him, and all he had to do was put his mouth piece on the other end again and he finally got the medicine his lungs had been begging for the last ten minutes. He actually had to hold his nose closed and forced down the coughs that wracked his chest in painful spasms.

After the second dosage it finally opened his airways again. He threw the mouth piece in the trash in the room and they were sent back to the waiting room, to wait until the doctor was ready for them to discuss the results.

As they waited Sherlock kept sporadically coughing up the mucus that had formed and gotten loose from the medication. His hands were shaking horribly from the medicine.

John kept giving him sympathetic glances. He could completely understand why Sherlock hated going here.

As they waited, Sherlock's mind wandered back to the first time he had been here.

* * *

 _He was just a teen when he was having almost constant chest pains. He didn't tell anyone of his family, not until he could figure out what was wrong with him._

 _But after weeks of looking through medical books and searching through the internet, he came up with nothing regarding his current condition._

 _It all happened so quickly. It was a very hot summer day. The air was bone dry and wind-still. He was at school and had PE, or sports class, and him and the rest of the boys from his class just got back to the changing rooms, after an hour of jogging around a giant circle like path._

 _He was never a fan of sports, and as his lungs had started to burn and he had told his teacher, they dismissed him for just having stitches in the sides. He tried to tell them that this was a lot different, and that he was feeling like he might pass out, but his cruel teacher told him to go back to his rounds, that he was losing time standing here._

 _And so when they got back to their changing room, Sherlock just slumped down on the bench. Sadly he was the victim of the class' bullying, and instead of anyone asking if he was alright, or fetching the school nurse for him, they made fun of him. Most didn't care and just went about their business, spraying way too much deodorant on their bodies and some even spraying it around in the air because they were stinking everything up with their sweaty bodies._

 _Sherlock had no other choice than to breathe the deodorant into his spasming lungs. It only got worse. And to his horror he felt his eyes watering from the pain and desperation for actual air._

 _He didn't remember much after the first guys left for the next class. He remembers waking up in a hospital bed with machines hooked up to him, and a mask over most of his face._

 _He found that his chest was hurting him more than ever. He felt a fire burning inside of his entire chest and realized that tears were trickling down his face. To his surprise his whole family sat around him, his mother holding his hand and telling him with a gentle smile that everything will be alright._

 _Mycroft explained to him that he had been in biology class when it happened. Since Sherlock had a higher IQ than him - even though the elder would never admit it - Sherlock had skipped three years and so they only had four between them. He got immediately called away from his class and to the nurses office, being told that an ambulance was on its way. He stayed at his side the whole time, even though they were equally panicked. Sherlock because he was sure he was going to die, and Mycroft because he didn't want to lose his brother._

 _Their parents had been notified, and when they arrived at the hospital a nurse told them that they weren't sure if he would make it through the night._

 _But there he was, a day later and on his way to recovery._

 _After he was released two days later, he was sent to this specialist and had to endure these tests for the first time. But at least he had finally gotten a diagnose and his first inhalers._

* * *

Sherlock was brought back to reality when his throat was tickling him, forcing him into another coughing attack. At least he could cough up most of the mucus easily now.

"Oh you're back." John said. After Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow, he explained "you were gone for a few minutes, like, Mind Palace gone. What were you thinking about?"

Sherlock gave a sigh. He made to speak but the first word was only a painful wheeze, followed by a few coughs. It was always so nasty. First you're in pain and then after the attacks everything is so out of control and you have to clean everything up. "First time I was here." He finally managed to say.

"I'm guessing you wouldn't have just gone to a lung specialist unless you had a very good reason, or were forced to." Sherlock smiled, John knew him so well.

"Bit of both."

"Mr Holmes?" They looked up at a big man. He wasn't wearing anything that may have indicated that he was a doctor. But Sherlock seemed to know him. Maybe he was even his doctor back then? It would make sense to be with the same doctor, after all.

They followed him into his office. The doctor asked him a bit about how his condition has been treating him - John giggled at the wording because it was just so true.

He then told them the results, and asked what his current medication is.

"I am prescribing you a stronger preventer. It should do the trick."

From that day he took a brown preventer over the whole allergy season, and Mycroft had another paper for his file that said his little brother was alive and taking care of himself.


	15. Laryngitis

So a little heads up: I made all of Sherlock's lines in **bold** letters, so that you can kind of get a feeling for when he loses his voice or it acts up. When it gets thin/quiet it will be written normal, and higher pitches will be like _this_. Everyone else is still like always. Hope this isn't too confusing xD

* * *

When he woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, Sherlock had a hunch.

When his voice started acting like when he had his voice breaking as a teen - Mrs Hudson giving him a second glance - a few days later, he was pretty sure of his theory.

So better to tell John before he was mute.

" **John**."

John looked up at him from texting someone on his phone, probably Harriet.. "Hm?"

 **"Just letting you** k _now_ **\- *ahem* that I will be mute in a few days."**

John at first gave him a startled look. He thought Sherlock meant his bouts of sulking and not talking for days. "Well thank you for giving me a heads-up." And went back to his phone.

Sherlock didn't bother to correct him. He went to the kitchen to make more tea.

* * *

His flatmate was almost constantly drinking. Be it water or tea, he drowned cup after cup like the air he needed to breathe. The doctor in him told him to take action now, before he will flush out all kinds of electrolytes and faints.

When his flatmate was forced to the bathroom again, since all that water had to go somewhere, John knocked on the door. "Unless you accidentally - or experimentally - need to flush out your body from everything it needs to keep you conscious, please stop drinking all of this world's water supply?"

* * *

His throat was always dry. No matter how much he drank he always felt like he hadn't gotten a drop of water in two days. Plus he felt like there was a tight ring around his throat, and every time he swallowed, he felt it tighten and the inside of his throat scratching against sand paper.

He wants to tell John, but he knows better. Talking will only aggravate it further and he could loose his voice completely for two weeks. He is under a strict vocal rest.

Sherlock sighs as he gets out again. John still stood next to the door.

"Mind telling me what's going on?" He asked him.

Sherlock looked around the flat in search of his phone. He could text him or just write on a notes app and show him. But for whatever reason he has no idea where his phone was currently at. Then again, his mind was distracted by the desert storm in his throat.

John noticed his flatmates distress. "What it is? Are you looking for something?"

Sherlock nodded and figured John might know. He decided to mime. He put a hand straight in front of himself, and with his other hand he pretended to push buttons. Then he took the 'phone hand' to his ear. "Your phone? You gotta call somebody?" John decided not to ask what the whole sharades thing was about.

Sherlock nodded, then realized John said he needed to call someone, and shook his head.

"What's that supposed to mean now?"

If he could, Sherlock would groan out loud. He did so inside his head, though.

Alright, he know that John doesn't understand sign language so that was out of the question. He could try morse code, but laryngitis is probably too long for the doctor to get - he was out of practice.

He hadn't realized that he was pacing up and down and fiddling around with his hands. When he did he stopped himself.

"Sherlock seriously what's the matter?" His friend asked him so full of concern.

Sherlock didn't know what to make of it.

With a sigh through his nose, he decided to risk it. " **Laryngitis**.. - happens ..-- _mtimes_. _As_... _a_." (sometimes; asthma)

Realization suddenly dawned on the doctor's face. "Ooooh- so you can't- I mean you shouldn't- I mean.. you're on vocal rest. I'll text Lestrade not to call us for at least a week."

Sherlock only nodded at him.

When John was done with his phone, he came back over to where Sherlock still stood, not knowing what to do with himself now. "Let me check your temperature real quick." The doctor said and felt his forehead and cheeks. "You don't have a fever. Night sweats?" Sherlock nodded. How his shower didn't wake the doc at 2 am was a puzzle to him.

"I go away to my sister for a week and you get sick." John muttered.

He was away? Oooh-

That is one mystery solved.

John motioned him over. "Come on, let's put your scarf around your neck and then you are to lay down - and sleep."

When he had made sure that his flatmate was in bed and asleep, he opened his laptop and waited for it to boot.

He googled a bit. So it is a pretty common thing for asthmatics, because of the cough, the produced mucus, and the inflammation of the bronchi can sometimes infect the larynx and vocal chords.

He slowly closed the laptop again. He went over to the bathroom to get paracetamol and a glass of water to put on Sherlock's bedside table, and then went to the kitchen to get some chicken noddle soup started.

A few weeks later they were called to a case again. Since John's message had only said "Don't call us in for at least a week - doctors orders", Lestrade couldn't help his curiosity.

"So what were you sick with?" The DI asked when they arrived.

"Silence." The detective answered and went to look over the corpse.

Lestrade looked to John.

"The silence was deafening." The doctor said and went after his friend to give him the stats.

Donovan and Anderson stood next to Lestrade and gave him dumbfounded looks.

"Get back to work you two!"

 **A/N You got 3 guessed who is on vocal rest right now and has an appointment with their therapist in a few days, where it's always almost an hour of talking. XD RIP**


	16. A hairy situation

Apologies for the long wait. Have some more dog scenes and a bit of drama.

Sherlock was bored, and John was desperately looking for a case. He was looking through the comments on his blog, while also keeping an eye on his flatmate, who apparently decided he had to scratch Nicky's entire body up and down, leaving his hairs everywhere. Ah, spring.

After he found one that sounded at least remotely interesting, he decided to finally say something about the dog hairs that clung to their furniture and clothes. "Ahem. Sherlock? Please do something about the excessive fur shedding of Your dog." He said pretty calmly for his taste.

"It is normal." Sherlock stated, not once even looking John's way. He even took a hand filled with hairs and then held his arm out high, letting them fall through his fingers.

"Sherlock." John warned. He knew Sherlock was in one of his 'moods', and at least he wasn't shooting the walls again, but he really did want to have the flat clean if the client does come. Besides, some clients might be allergic and then they would have to keep Nicky out of the living room - possibly even their flat. Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind looking after him, but still...

"Alright. I am going to get our shopping, and I expect You to have him de-haired by the time I get back." John commandeered.

When John got back about an hour later, arms filled with heavy shopping bags for not only them, but also dog food and treats that he wanted to secretly give him.

He was surprised to find Sherlock and Nicky on the floor, three different brushes and a bunch of those roll thingies that you use to make the hairs from clothes stick to the papers.

And also a trash can that was filled to the brim with said papers.

"Jesus, when I said to de-hair him I didn't mean making him naked!" John exclaimed in his shock.

Sherlock turned his head to him and glared, holding the dog in question - who was still very much hairy - up for John to see. "I didn't shave him, they are all loose hairs. And I'm pretty sure that there isn't a single loose hair on him anymore." He said and set Nicky down on the floor again, who wagged his tail at John.

While Sherlock was cleaning up his supplies, John was putting away the groceries - and hid the dog treats where he was Sure that Sherlock would never find them.

The doctor suddenly realized that Sherlock wasn't showing any signs of his asthma, with all the loose hairs that he still needed to clean. He suspected that Mycroft probably managed to get the one dog that was anti-allergenic.

When he was done with the bags, he went over to his laptop to check if the possible client had answered yet. And that she had. She also wanted to see them as soon as possible.

"Sherlock!" John called.

Nicky came long before the detective, and earned himself another round of pets.

"If you loosen his hairs, it will be your turn to 'de-hair' him." Sherlock snapped when he saw John touching the fur he had worked so hard on.

John rolled his eyes. "You got a new client." He said with a grin.

Before Sherlock could say anything, Nicky suddenly growled at the door. Well, his growling sounded more like a pigeons cooing, but his point was made.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. John wondered for a second if the brilliant genius actually expected a human worded answer from a Chihuahua. To his amusement, the dog have two little 'woofs' which sounded like small, suppressed coughs.

Sherlock looked at John with a 'grab your gun' look, and John was seriously starting to think that maybe Doctor Doolittle wasn't made up.

The door to their flat opened, by Mrs Hudson. "Yoohoo, boys. You got a client." She said cheerful, and the two men - and dog - were still wired.

Behind her, a woman appeared, and before she even set one foot in their flat, John jumped up. "Harry?! What the hell are You doing here?!"

Nicky's pigeon-growling started up again and this time he bared his teeth and scraped with his back legs on the floor like a bull with his fore hooves, ready to attack.

John saw this and immediately said "no, calm down. Stay!"

Sherlock glared at him. 'Let the dog do what he must, for gods sake.' He thought and picked the dog, who let out a humm-like whimper at being picked up, and kept a tall stance in the detective's arms.

Something wasn't right, and Sherlock could tell that John would be very upset when he found out.

Harry was drunk.

"Come on Johnny boy! I had to make up a profile and that there was a case, Just to see you again! You never visit anymore... or call..."

Sherlock just stood there holding his dog, not knowing what to do. And John could definitely smell the alcohol in her breath.

"You're drunk." The doctor said. "And not just a bit. How many bottles did you drink?"

She laughed. A very crazy laugh. She swung an arm around John's shoulders - who looked very displeased - and suddenly she just fell to the floor unconscious.

Mrs Hudson gasped. "Oh dear. Oh dear! I'll call an ambulance, stay here." She said and rushed down the stairs.

John checked all her vitals, and Sherlock just stood at the side unmoving. "John..?"

"Not now, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't understand a lot of things when it came to social stuff, but he knew when it was better if he just pretended that he wasn't there.

John never thought he could hate being in a hospital so much as he did right then. Having to fill out the forms, answering the questions from nurses and doctors.

Reading through the sectioning papers.

He had to sign it.

And he did.

And it was the hardest thing he had to do in his life.

When John came back late in the evening, the flat was dark and silent. Nicky laid on the sofa, which meant that Sherlock couldn't be far, since Chihuahuas never want to be alone. But so far he couldn't see a sign of him.

He sat down next to the fluffy little dog and scratched him behind the ears, sighing heavily. Nicky turned his front to him, and laid a paw on his lap, giving him an 'I still love you' look with his big eyes.

John smiled. He checked around again, but there was still no sign of his friend.

He decided to risk it.

He moved a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a few small treats.

He didn't know why he kept buying them, since Sherlock always gets mad at him for giving his dog treats that he didn't need.

In the dark of his room, Sherlock glanced out and watched with a smile as Nicky ate the treats one at a time out of John's hand.

His friend would be okay.

In case the last bit was confusing: Sherlock doesn't know how to act and comfort John, so he let Nicky do his thing lol. Because that face will always make you smile.


	17. Asthma sure has a touch of the dramatic

_So, as you can tell from the weather in this chapter, this was written up to 70% a loooong time ago, but I never finished it. I had a massive scare today -well, yesterday now-, where I just started coughing blood_ _completely randomly, and my parents had to find me on the bathroom floor in shock, suffering a PNES attack and unable to get up or help myself. Way to start the day, eh? So I decided to finally finish this long chapter. Enjoy the drama_.

In a sort of desperate attempt at keeping his mind busy, and not think about his sister, John had taken up a job at St Bart's as an emergency surgeon. He had just told Sherlock one day "I'm going to work. See you in the evening", before closing the door behind him.

Granted, it had been a while since Sherlock's asthma had been a real trouble, and the detective guessed that it had completely left John's mind at the moment. He did feel bad for his flatmate, but didn't know how to comfort someone whose only left family member kept giving in to their alcoholism. Plus he wasn't exactly the cuddle and cry type. So he just let Nicky do the cuddling, and made sure that certain supplies like coffee and milk were always present, and a ready, steaming cup already awaiting John when he came down from his upstairs bedroom every morning.

John never asked Sherlock about when he even slept the past few weeks, always just accepting the mug, with Sherlock nowhere other than in his bedroom. Gifted horses and all that.

But if he'd only asked him a single time, then he most likely never had to be in this situation: sitting in front of a surgery room, having to watch his colleges working on saving his friend.

\--

It was summer. God, how Sherlock hated summer. And since when did London have heat waves like this? They were getting one bout of african, sandy air after another. They had ventilators in all rooms now, and opening a window is completely out of the question, yet John always did a quick round of opening all windows in the mornings before he left for work.

Sherlock cursed in his mind as he closed the last window as he tried his best to hold his breath. The bone-dry, hot air was irritating his airways within seconds.

It had been like this for two full, torturous weeks now, and he felt like he would never be able to breathe normally again. He constantly felt like he had a giant rock on his chest, with the biggest chains wrapped around his back, holding it in place.

He turned away from the window, drew the curtains and painfully sucked in a slow breath.

He was in constant pain by now, breathing or not. Nicky whined at him from where he sat on the sofa.

Sherlock knew he was right. He had to take the Beclomethasone, his asthma-attack-prevention inhaler; he just couldn't go on without it anymore.

The spraying of water into the air, the mint oil in hot water inhalation, the breathing techniques,.. it just didn't cut it anymore. He couldn't ignore it anymore.

He'd lain awake almost all night every day, because the second he lowered his head, he'd be gasping for air. And if he did manage to fall asleep, he would wake up 20 minutes later, dreaming of drowning or getting choked by a stranger, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

Maybe it was a pride thing, but Sherlock hated, hated, hated having to use inhalers. Didn't like it when he first got them as a teen, and that hadn't changed still. The thing about the preventors is that they are basically cortisone, and that is what make asthmatics so prone to colds and worse infections. He would know, never getting sick as long as he could go without meds, but two weeks on cortisone spray and he was bedridden with pneumonia for a month.

He felt like he didn't deserve this... irritating disease. He had been all about health as a kid, believe it or not, and he was so furious that He had to get the demented lungs.

Bronchi.

Whatever.

He had felt so betrayed from his body, that he had started to smoke. In his fury, he had believed that if he did that, he would at least have a reason for the coughing and the chest pains.

His brother had quickly made him see reason, as soon as he'd heard of his new habit.

As soon as Mycroft was out of the picture though... he had not only returned to cigarettes, but started shooting up as well. Granted, the drugs worked to stop the asthma attacks temporarily. Or he just never remembered them.

But the whole withdrawal part when his brother had finally found out, made him feel like drugs were just not worth it. That didn't mean he didn't crave it from time to time, but he managed.

Well, he was currently inhaling steroids. He'd just have to do with what he got. Even when he hated the whole part of it. The taste, the burning in his already irritated bronchi as the medication started to work, the tedious process of coughing up the loosened mucus as he stood hunched over the sink, leaning on his elbows on the sink...

He felt shaky all over again. Nicky's claws could be heard as the little dog made his way over to Sherlock, who had sat down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, panting after the coughing fit.

Nicky curled up on the detective's lap, letting him run his fingers through his fur as he just breathed.

\--

Sherlock never noticed the fever. He put it down to the massive heat and his labored breathing - he'd always started sweating whenever his asthma had acted up.

It was now the third day of him taking his prevention inhaler every morning and evening, always carrying a reliever inhaler in a pocket. The pain in his lungs slowly eased down, and he could breathe easier.

—-

The heat had a short break, finally an entire day of London rain. Finally a day where they could open the windows.

Sherlock had even kept John company that evening. Of course he hid any signs of his struggle the last few weeks, and just listened to John talking about work. About the many people suffering circulatory collapse from the heat wave. About meeting Molly for lunch. About news of his sister. That her liver would need a transplant after the heavy blow it had taken, but that she was at the very end of the list, and John had a different blood group than her. (And Sherlock would never come in question because of his drugs habit.)

The unspoken "I'm going to lose the last member I have left of my family", leaving the cool air turn to ice.

\--

The African air had made a reappearance, and a fierce one at that, with expected 39C and air humidity of barely 10%.

And Sherlock was exasperated that Lestrade called him early in the morning on this exact day, saying that some lunatic had decided that today would be a good day for a serial killing.

In his fury of having to leave the safety of the flat, he had completely forgotten to take the preventer inhaler, just grabbed Nicky and stormed out of the flat.

He realized his mistake the second he stepped foot out of the flat. The hot, dry air assaulting his bothered airways, and Sherlock did his best to just keep going, and sat down in the cab.

Yes, he felt like he was sucking air through a clogged straw, and Nicky had picked up on his labored breathing and was gently pawing at him from where he sat on his lap.

Sherlock told the driver the address in one short breath, panting through his nose to get enough air again.

The driver shot him a questioning glance through the back mirror. "Sure you shouldn't be taken to a nearby hospital?"

Sherlock shook his head, and after a few more breaths bit out "'m fine".

The driver kept his eyes on him for a moment longer, before shrugging and taking off to where he was told to drive.

He debated on wether he should just take the reliever inhaler while he was still in the cab. He hated having to use it in general, it always made his body tremble and feel anxious. And he hated it even more to use it in front of the Yarders, after last time.

But the irrational part of his brain said: maybe he would be fine. After all, he'd managed to go for weeks with this air.

Of course, that he'd spent most of the time in his own home with coping mechanisms, had no important part in that logic.

But the decision wasn't his anymore, when he suddenly had to cough and the first two were only wheezes, earning himself another glance from the cabbie.

Nicky started whining at him, and Sherlock made quick work on digging out the blue inhaler from his pants pocket. He was hyperaware of the cabbie watching him and the street variantly, while he did the 'ritual' of preparing and administering the medication.

He suppressed the violent coughs that threatened to convulse his chest, and took the second puff with a glare thrown at the cabbie, who finally kept his eyes on the traffic around him.

He realized that this had been the first time he had made the decision to actively make his.. condition.. apparent to others -well, John was an exception - and it hadn't backfired.

No snide remarks at his inability to just breathe like everybody else (even John had complained once about the air being so hard to breathe, although he never seemed to have thought about how Sherlock was fairing), no sudden craving to smoke a cigarette near him, just.. nothing. Absolutely nothing, besides the staring.

Nicky laid calmly on his lap until they arrived.

—-

Lestrade was discussing something with his team when Sherlock arrived with his dog. He was carrying him in his arms because it was easier to get out of the cab that way, since he had already been laying on his lap and the pavement was almost ten degrees hotter than the weather already was.

It was a fairly weird sight, the detective in only a short button down and pants that were a bit loose as to let air touch his skin, which was futile since there was no wind whatsoever, and carrying a small dog with only a collar on, walking to the crime scene. If no one was the wiser, they would think he was just an ordinary person who happened to cross by the crime scene.

Lestrade had honestly underestimated the severity of Sherlocks asthma. He knew that the Chihuahua was an asthma alert service dog (and a drug sniffer) but the condition had never been this bad before, so Greg had falsely assumed that Sherlock would be fine if he took his meds or whatever.

Well, he was in for a surprise. And probably a shock of his life.

Greg and his team were standing in the entrance of the residence, so he motioned for Sherlock to join them.

The shade didn't help much, but Sherlock felt better about having Nicky on the ground like this. He wasn't too fond of carrying him, and right now he felt like he actually didn't have the strength to carry the 4 kilo dog for long.

Lestrade didn't have a problem with Sherlock bringing the dog. After all, he was considered medical equipment.

But sadly, Anderson seemed to have something against him since the second that Sherlock had brought him with him the first time. "No dogs allowed, you know the rules!" He complained.

But nobody cared. In fact, Nicky was staring at Sherlock in a way that was starting to make everyone around uncomfortable. Like he was seeing a ghost, he was watching the detective so intently.

Greg didn't really pay attention to it. He made Sherlock follow him to peek into the rooms while he started telling him the facts. "Alright, so, we have a 45 year old female, found dead in her bedroom from a deadly shot in the head. But the handgun was found in the kitchen, on the middle of the table, and has her fingerprints on it."

Sherlock didn't even take five seconds to reply. "Blood on the bed?" He wasn't allowed to look himself because forensics were still working on getting pictures.

"No."

"But on her body and clothes?"

"Uh, yea. How did you-"

"Anywhere inside her house?"

"Nope."

Sherlock groaned. "Idiots..."

Lestrade just looked at him and waited for the explanation.

"She wasn't killed in her house. Someone killed her elsewhere, waited for the blood to dry, and then brought her into this house, positioned her, and put the handgun on the table. She obviously owned the gun, so all he had to-"

"He?"

"Obviously. All he had to do was use the right gloves and-" he was suddenly cut off by a fierce coughing fit. Nicky, who was staring at him the entire time, suddenly jumped up on his back legs and pawed at the detective's legs.

Greg finally took notice and suddenly got very concerned. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't really know what was happening, only that he was coughing up a LOT of mucus all of a sudden. Liquid-y mucus. After the long, painful coughing fit he took a tissue and spat into it. He looked down and suddenly felt how his chest and throat were on fire and how much he was panting and his entire body started tingling with pins and needles.

Nicky stepped away just in time for Sherlock to suddenly collapse, all strength leaving him. He was still conscious, which made it all so much worse. Because for one, he couldn't stop coughing because the build-up mucus kept blocking his airways, and every time he spat it out - he was too busy trying to breathe to try to swallow it - he just kept seeing the clear mucus with so much red red red.

"Help." He croaked between pants. Greg crouched down next to him and put a hand to Sherlock's back to support him, and barked at Donovan "call an ambulance RIGHT NOW!"

Anderson, for once, stood back and kept his mouth shut.

Nicky was sitting to Sherlock's left and has his head on his lap, giving Greg a pleading look. Sadly, Greg had no idea what he was supposed to do in this situation other than hope that Sherlock didn't die in the time it took for the ambulance to arrive. He had read up on asthma attacks for a bit, and knew that usually inhalers did the trick. But. This wasn't your average asthma attack.

Sherlock just sat there, body shaking from the shock, trying his hardest to stop himself from coughing, and his thoughts were a mantra of "ow ow ow ow ow ow" as every breath just felt like he was breathing razors instead of air. And for some reason, he desperately wanted to get up. Probably fight or flight response or something, his foggy brain concluded. But he didn't have the strength. He couldn't even push himself up enough to lift his behind in order to change position in hopes that the intense tingling in his legs would stop.

"Sherlock, would your inhaler help?" Greg asked him desperately. His consultant was growing more and more pale and his lips were starting to turn just the slightest bit blue. He just wanted to do SOMETHING. Anything to help, but he didn't know how.

"I don't.. know.." Sherlock managed to force out. His voice was hoarse, his lungs and throat were burning and stabbing and he was terrified of coughing up more blood, so he suppressed the urge. His hand fished for the little device. He knew that he had just used it not long ago, and didn't think that it would be a good idea. But he was desperate for Any kind of positive change. So he used it again, in front of everyone's eyes. Greg had to hold him up because he almost fell flat on his back when he wasn't supporting his weight with his hands and uncapped the inhaler.

Donovan approached them hesitantly. "Sir, ambulance will be here in about two minutes, they just finished up two blocks down the street."

"Thank god." Greg sighed. But suddenly he had a heap of detective slam into him. "Sherlock!" He checked him over. He was still awake... sort of. "You can't fall asleep now! Stay with me a but longer, alright?"

Sherlock just kept panting and trembling in his arms, pressing his eyes closed. He just wanted this to end, right now. He wanted to escape the pain.

This was just a messed up dream. A nightmare. Never in his life would he have thought that he'd be this vulnerable in front of his enemies. ..And Greg.

He's had coughed blood before. But never this much. And it never hurt this bad before.

He didn't remember much after he saw the flashing blue lights.

\--

John sat in front of theater room 3, looking down at the bloody tissue in his hands. The doctors were performing a bronchoscopy in order to find out where the blood was coming from, and he wasn't allowed in the room. In all honesty, he didn't feel like he could actually stand in there, next to his sedated friend, watching the monitor as they travelled down the probably bloodied and torn airways.

No, all he wanted was to know that his friend would be alright. He was already about to lose his sister. He couldn't lose his best friend now, too.

"John?" He startled. Looking up, he saw Molly Hooper in front of him.

"Molly.." he trailed off, not sure what to say. She sat down on the chair next to John's, looking down at the bloody tissue in John's hands.

"Is that-"

"Sherlock's.. he's in there right now." John said, pointing to the door next to him.

"Oh gosh.. uh.. John, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

She bit her lip. "Does Sherlock really have asthma?"

Well, that was unexpected. "Yeah. Yes, he does. Why?"

"Well, uhm.. Detective Inspector Lestrade was with me once-- you know, the case with the dead asthmatic? Well, he told me that it was solved because Sherlock knew so much about asthma and.. I've just been wondering if it was true or not. This dog that his brother gave him.. it's an asthma alert dog, isn't it?"

John was actually impressive by how much Molly had deduced on her own. "Yeah, to.. all of that."

"Where is his dog?"

"Sorry?"

"Where is his dog? If Sherlock's in surgery, where is he, that little dog? I'm just worried, if it's out on the streets or-"

"No, no. He's at the nurse station right now. They are all over him." John chuckled.

"Oh, alright." Molly smiled. She then looked at the theater door. "Do you know what happened?"

John sighed. "Greg told me a bit earlier. Apparently Sherlock was called on a case and before he could tell him his deductions, he started coughing blood, collapsed, and passed out just when the ambulance arrived."

"Oh no, that's horrible! I'm really sorry, John."

"It's... it is what it is, isn't it? Let's just hope that you won't have out favorite detective on a slab." He joked, with a very dark humor.

"Yeah, he better doesn't." Molly agreed.

The door next to John opened and a team rolled Sherlock out. They both sprang up immediately and walked into ICU with them.

The surgeon responsible for Sherlock actually sighed when the detective was placed in one of the rooms, the accompanying nurses getting him hooked up on an IV and oxygen. John and this doctor knew each other, and John knew that it wasn't out of disrespect, but because he knew what John was already going through, and that he wouldn't like the news.

Molly checked her wrist watch and turned to John. "My break is over, I'm sorry-"

"No, no it's fine." John told her.

"Text me on his condition, please." She pleaded as she turned back at the door.

"Of course." He replied. And she was gone.

John turned to the doctor. "So, what did this git manage to do now?" He looked down at the tissue that he forgot he was still holding. "Apart from this." He decided to finally throw it into the trash now.

His college wasn't very amused. "Well, apart from the obvious, he has a case of bronchitis that is on the brink of turning into pneumonia." John groaned. "I understand that he used to smoke?" John nodded. "Well, he is at definitive risk of developing COPD, so we better keep an eye on that. Follow up appointments and checks with his pneumologist are highly recommended."

'He's not gonna like this', John thought bitterly. "Bloody idiot.." he cursed as he looked at his unconscious friend.

His college chuckled and put a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll leave you two alone now. You know the deal: any questions, come straight to me."

"Yeah.."

"Good."

They were alone now. John took one of the rolling chairs and sat down next to his friend.

He sat in silence for a good ten minutes, not sure what to say, and knowing that Sherlock wouldn't hear him anyways.

But at some point his emotions took over.

"You bloody idiot... I'm already losing my sister and now you go and pull a- a-.. a SHERLOCK." John whispered to him and turned away for a moment.

"That doesn't even make sense.." came a weak voice from behind him.

John turned back around to see Sherlock looking at him through barely opened eyelids. "Sherlock you GIT! Bloody git!"

"Heard you the first time.."

"Bloody git!"

"Mmmh."

"Shut up, you shouldn't be doing anything other than breathing and sleeping."

Short silence.

"Where's..."

"Sherlock I mean it-"

"Where's.. dog.."

"Are you serious right now? Are you actually, bloody serious right now?" John snapped at him. "You go for WEEKS! Or who even Knows How Long, with bronchitis, which was on the Brink of becoming full blown PNEUMONIA, cough BLOOD on a crime scene, faint in the ambulance, and all you ask is WHERE YOUR DOG IS?!"

"..yes.." Sherlock whispered.

John didn't even know how to respond now. "He's at the nurses station. Believe it or not, people are very fond of a well behaved, fluffy little Chihuahua."

Sherlock didn't look happy about this. "They.. gon.. spoil.."

"Shut up, I mean it."

"But Jo-"

"SHUT. UP!"

Sherlock finally went quiet.

John looked him in the eye. "I'm already losing my sister, Sherlock. The last person of my broken family that I have left. I can't-.. I can't lose you too." His voice cracked but he didn't care. His sister was dying and his cock of a friend decides that Now was a good time to throw his health away? "You can be so selfish sometimes..."

Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell him what he'd been up to, and just reached out clumsily to grab John's hand.

"You're not getting rid.. of me that easy."


End file.
